


Down the Rabbit Hole

by Flynntervention



Category: South Park
Genre: Anything can happen in South Park, M/M, Mental Illness, Secrets, Sexy Times, Slow Burn, Some Fantasy, best friends turned boyfriends, mystery past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-02-28 09:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13268436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flynntervention/pseuds/Flynntervention
Summary: Craig’s in deep with this guy, but he’s out of his mind...—Even after three agonisingly empty years, Craig is still hopelessly in love. And now Tweek has tumbled back into life; still strange, still quirky, but now there’s something even more curious about him...





	1. Take

  
How long has it been? Two...three years? Three sounds right. Although Craig has been so internally emotionally volatile lately, he can’t be absolutely certain. But he supposes it doesn’t matter how many years it’s been. Everything is monumentally fucked up one way or another.

 “He’s out there again,” Token says, sinking his fork into a slither of grilled chicken, part of the exceptionally bland looking salad he brings for lunch every day. The usual crew surrounds him, Craig, Clyde and Jimmy, sitting on the grey stone steps leading out to the yard where diverse groups of kids huddle together in the same places as always. Little has changed over the years. “What do you think he’s up to?”

 Only vaguely listening, Craig shrugs. Sat on the bottom step, leaning back on his elbows with his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, his gaze is fixed maybe a little too intently on the figure a couple of hundred feet ahead of them. Tweek Tweak, South Park’s most recent resident uncertified crazy kid, is alone at the far end of the football field where a border of towering green trees separates the school from the forest. Nestled between the roots of a tree Craig has absolutely no idea of the name of, Tweek doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything - except chit-chatting and gesticulating excitedly at this and that, to who knows who.

“He’s fucking crazy, man,” Clyde says, swigging from and then downing a bottle of pulp-free orange juice. He crushes the bottle in his fist and tosses it to the bin a couple of metres away, missing completely and cursing having to leave his spot to pick it up. He tries again to toss the bottle in when he’s nearer. It bounces off the rim onto the floor. “For fuck’s sake… I mean he’d always been borderline but now he’s literally talking to himself. Did he do that before?”

Token hums, shaking his head. “There were a lot of weird things he did.” Only chewing his food an even number of times, praying to aliens not to abduct him on pizza Thursdays, apologising to inanimate objects, to name just a few. “But I don’t think he ever talked to himself.” Token pauses to munch through a piece of crunchy lettuce, adding, “That’s definitely a development.”

Craig is still staring. Yes, it’s definitely a stare, but he doesn’t really know he’s doing it until one of the guys snaps his attention back to real-time. It’s been happening a lot these last two months, the staring thing. Awful funny how it’s been two months since Tweek re-emerged in South Park. What did that mean? Did that mean something at all? Craig wasn’t willing to think too deeply about it. Not again.

 “Craig, are you o-o-okay?” On this occasion it’s Jimmy who calls Craig’s attention home. Craig’s eyes slot back into focus, with some reluctance his attention drawn back to reality and his back to his friends.

“Hm, what?” His head lolls backwards to look at Jimmy perched at the top of the steps, his crutches resting a few steps down whilst he balances his lunchbox on his lap. 

“You’ve been st…st…st…looking real hard at Tweek. Something bothering you?”

“Aside from the fact one of our ex-best friends has completely cracked since we last saw him?” Clyde chirrups, looking out across the field again. Tweek is on his feet now, his palms and his ear pressed to the scratchy bark of one of the trees. He looks a lot like he’s petting it.

Jimmy and Token are both giving Craig that look they keep giving him lately. Oblivious, Clyde sits back down beside Craig, tearing open a Toblerone bar and snapping a triangular piece off the end. The three of them shake their heads when he offers them some, and he shrugs, muttering “suit yourselves” and mimicking Craig’s position on the steps. 

It’s the height of summer, and for a change they’re all coat free, content in loose jumpers and shirts. Dressed in dark jeans, a blue v-neck jumper with a dusk pink shirt underneath, Craig also still has his chullo on, even though his forehead is beginning to prickle with sweat. Token refers to it as his ‘safety blanket’, and Craig wonders if it is, since without it he’s always felt strangely awkward and exposed.

A few times Craig has coached himself into going right up to Tweek and saying “hey”. Twelve times, in fact, four at lunch on the rare occasions Tweek has been spotted in the cafeteria, three on their way out of history class, another three when they were making their ways’ home, and two in home period. None of those twelve times had resulted in a successful interaction, something Craig repeatedly berates himself for. Maybe thirteen will be the charm, he keeps telling himself, if he ever plucks up the courage…

Craig’s not a coward by any stretch of the imagination. But God dammit if Tweek doesn’t give him the jitters, just like he had started to do back when they were twelve and entering that stage of life consisting of awkward unexplainable boners, sweaty palms and racing hearts. Up until their sex-ed classes, Craig was beginning to wonder if he was terminally ill and facing his last desperate weeks on Earth. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved when he found out he was simply ‘growing up’.

Five years ago, Tweek Tweak, with no explanation, no sight or sound, stopped coming to school. Hw stopped coming out to play games with the other kids. He didn’t answer texts, calls or emails. The Tweaks, despite numerous efforts from Craig to see and talk to his best friend in the world, refused to allow anyone inside their home, refused to let anyone near their son, refused to even talk about his existence, despite Tweek often being spotted like a ghostly apparition in the window of his bedroom, forlorn and sad, ephemeral and fleeting.

And was Craig Tucker, _the_ Craig Tucker, heartbroken by the loss? No way, nu-uh, course not.

He can’t keep his eyes off the enigma that is Tweek Tweak. He can’t concentrate in class when he can see that messy blond bird’s nest a few seats over. He can’t do much of anything; eating, sleeping, maintaining a conversation. It’s getting to be a problem.

“You tried to talk to him recently?” Token asks, sounding sympathetic. He’s always been the observant sort. Did talking himself into it and then out of it count as trying?

“Nah. You?” Craig answers casually, pulling himself upright and his legs inwards so he can lean on his knees. He’s watching Tweek again, who is now looking up into a labyrinth of bows, chatting away to thin air.

 “Since the first time I tried, he somehow manages to disappear if I so much as look in his direction,” Token answers somewhat mournfully. Tweek had been a close friend to the whole gang, after all, and they’d all missed his presence greatly. “I’d love to know what’s been going on these last few years.”

 “Can’t’ve been anything good,” Clyde answers, looking Craig over and shuffling to put himself into the same position as him; his attempt to look ‘cool’, since he always claimed Craig could manage it without a stitch of effort. “Not if he’s gone full-metal schizo.”

 Jimmy hits him on the head with one of his crutches and Clyde yelps. “D-don’t make fun of m-m…m-mental illness,” Jimmy chides, setting his crutch back down. Clyde looks apologetic, rubbing his head. 

Craig wishes he could just walk right up to Tweek and ask what the fuck has been going on. He wishes, but some part of him also doesn’t want to know. Over the years he’s come up with hundreds of theories, hundreds of reasons for Tweek to stop contacting them, to stop contacting _him_. And none of them had ever made any sense, not really. At the very centre of everything, there’s so much hurt Craig doesn’t know what to do with it all. 

“Maybe he’ll come and talk to us in his own time,” Token wonders, finishing his salad and with a snap popping the plastic lid back onto his lunchbox. He slides it into his backpack and clips it shut.

“Yeah,” Craig answers. Somehow though, he doubts it. “Maybe he will.”

 

\--

  
Craig doesn’t know exactly what has happened. All he knows is Tweek is distraught and won’t come out of the bathroom stall he always hides in during a difficult episode. This isn’t like the usual occasions when Craig had patiently stood outside the door, waiting for Tweek to calm himself for long enough to put one foot down and lean forward to slide the bolt across, letting Craig creep in with him to pet his hair and squeeze his arm until he’s ready to leave the stall, or at the very least talk.

Tweek has gone well beyond tears to painful heaves of breath, drawing it in by the lungful like there just isn’t enough available. The minutes trickle by, and Craig grows increasingly worried something serious has happened this time. Has someone hurt him? Does he need to break someone’s nose? But no, Tweek is more than capable of doing that for himself. Although that doesn’t mean Craig won’t happily break another bone, just because no one hurts his friend and gets away without an ass-kicking.

“Dude, come on,” Craig sighs, at this point a little exasperated. It’s not that he minds being there for Tweek when he’s upset, but the bathroom is fucking freezing and he missed lunch too. “Just tell me what’s going on. I can help.”

Craig rubs his eyes, aware they’ve missed the first fifteen minutes of geography. Oh well, no big loss there...

Craig steps away from where he’s leaning against the stall door, looking up at the gap above the cubicles. Opening the stall to the left, he puts down the toilet seat and steps up onto it, leaning forward to grip the stall wall, briefly hanging off by his arms and awkwardly swinging himself over the top into the stall Tweek is occupying.

“Gah!” Tweek shrieks, slipping part way off the seat in surprise when Craig lands with a _fhwumph_. Tweek catches himself against the wall, crying, “no! No, get out!”

“Jesus, Tweek,” Craig says, ignoring the outburst until Tweek begins to flail and lash out. Craig yelps when a pointy elbow jabs him in the face, snatching up Tweek’s wrists to stop him giving him a black eye or worse. Weakly Tweek fights against him, and then all at once the fight drains from him and he sags, defeated. And then very softly, Tweek starts to cry again, pressing his nose to Craig’s warm collar. Cries turn to snotty sobs, and all Craig can do is smooth soothing hands up his back, into wild hair and back down, squeezing and murmuring from time-to-time to remind Tweek he’s there, he’ll always be there.

He doesn’t understand. He rarely does, though he tries. Tweek is a hurricane of emotion, frantic and spiralling. Craig stands in the eye of those emotions, hanging on for dear life. All he wants to do is protect the boy in his arms. But he’s learnt over the years that there are some things he just can’t protect him from, some things he can’t beat up because he just can’t grasp them  

Tweek is starting to quieten, breathing evening out, now peppered with soft hiccups. Craig curls his arms tight around his shoulders and presses him nearer. “It’s okay,” he whispers, noticing speckles of colour on the floor at their feet. He peers further over Tweek’s shoulder as he murmurs comforts to him. Scattered around their feet are silken pink and orange petals and tiny green shoots like the kind they grew in jars in fourth grade. Odd.

Tweek is quiet now, his breathing smooth and even. Craig draws his attention back to him, carefully pushing him back. “You’re okay,” he says, though Tweek looks anything but. “You’re okay.”

—-

Craig is in bed watching videos on YouTube of dogs doing dumb things when a skype message pops up. It’s just past 1 o’clock in the morning and he wonders who would be contacting him at such an unusual time of night. Token is always in bed by 11, Clyde has been banned from the internet for two weeks for failing a maths test, and Jimmy rarely uses Skype.

The username is unfamiliar, so Craig is wary when he clicks it. It’s a short message consisting only of his name followed by four question marks. Craig frowns, clicking to see the profile attached to the account. There’s no information listed apart from the username “I_Want_Out”.

Craig types back to ask who it is, curious. He wonders if it’s one of those guys, hoping none of them have gotten hold of his Skype account details. Blocking people is such an effort.

I_Want_Out: its Tweek

 Craig’s heart seizes. Tweek. It’s Tweek. It’s _Tweek_  

Craig_Tucker: Tweek? Is this a joke?

I_Want_Out: No???

Craig’s heart thunders inside his chest. He feels nauseous and dizzy and elated. His fingers shake as he types. Months. He’s waited months.

Craig_Tucker: its really you Tweek?

I_Want_Out: yeah... its me. Can we talk? 


	2. Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig manages to bribe Tweek with the prospect of a free milkshake. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to let go of all of his secrets...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess, I haven’t properly proofed this. It’s making me go kind of cross-eyed. It might not be making much sense yet, but I Hope you like : )

Craig doesn’t know what exactly he was expecting, but it wasn’t waiting beside the Stark pond, shivering his ass off for nearly an hour. The earlier warmth of the day had lulled him into a severely false sense of security, and so he hadn’t brought his usual thick winter coat, instead throwing on a navy blue jacket and heading out into the evening chill.

Maybe he shouldn’t have waited for quite that long, but he was hopeful and had never expected Tweek to arrive on time; he’d be at least 15 minutes late. At least. Maybe 30. 45?

Craig feels like a total jackass for even daring to consider the idea he might be getting his best friend back, might find out what the hell has been going on these last five years. More fool him, he thinks, stomping across the grass, back towards the road. If Tweek didn’t really want to speak to him, why the hell would he invite him here of all places. Sure, it was solitary as hell and no one would disturb them at this time, but couldn’t Tweek just pick up the god damn phone like a normal person?

“Pff, normal,” Craig grumbles to himself, folding his arms snug against his chest and wondering why meeting somewhere with adequate heating had been so out of the question. He’d never managed “normal”. This was a typical “Tweekism”. Meet in the most obscure place possible, and then don’t even bother to show. Perfect.

It’s late, and Craig’s hungry, and how he’s mad too. He wonders if he should just go right over to the Tweak’s place, bang on their front door and demand an answer to what the hell Tweek thinks he’s doing, what’s with all the damn secrecy, why he can’t just talk to him… like he used to.

That’s a lot of effort though, and Craig has already expended his give-a-shit mode for one day. He’s tired more than he is mad, his angry stomping waning to grumpy footfalls leading him home, up the soggy paved path to his front door.

The lights are all off except for in the kitchen. His parents are at Tricia’s dance recital for the evening, so he has the house to himself for a few hours. On the dining table is a scribbled note saying dinner is keeping warm in the oven, followed by three perfect X’s.

The prospect of a warm dinner helps to improve Craig’s mood and for a while he forgets he’s been stood up and enjoys his mother’s exceptional cooking – lasagne, one of his favourites. Back before he ghosted the entire town, Tweek used to love staying for dinner, making all the excuses in the world he could to just be able to eat with the Tucker family. A scrawny kid, Craig always wondered how often Tweek’s parents even fed him, or did he simply exist on copious volumes of caffeine and whatever else was in that shit? That would explain a lot…

“Stupid Tweek,” Craig mutters, pushing a few final mouthfuls of lasagne from one side of the plate to the other. He really had wanted to talk to him in person. Sad, disappointed, Craig sighs and slides off his chair to his feet, dumping leftovers in the bin, washing up and heading upstairs.

His laptop is already powered on. Hopping onto his bed, he drags it into his lap and double clicks the Skype icon. Tweek might be online. There might be a completely reasonable explanation for not showing. And if not reasonable in the most conventional sense, at least an explanation.

But Tweek isn’t online. It doesn’t look like he’s even logged in since they talked the night before. Fuck.

 

\---

 “I told you, man,” Clyde is whispering, “you need to just forget about him. He forgot about us for like five years.”

Craig knows Clyde is just channelling hurt feelings, and that’s why he’s so keen for them to all give Tweek as wide a birth as is humanly possible when they share hallways, public bathrooms and classes. Clyde’s one of those sensitive kids, even if as he’s grown up he’s learnt to be better at hiding the fact. But Craig knows him almost as well as he knows himself, and he understands Clyde just doesn’t want to confront those hurt feelings, or add more to them.

“We still don’t know what actually happened,” Token says, barely looking up from science homework he’s getting a head start on, his usual Friday afternoon routine. He spends five out of seven of his evenings engaging in recreational activities – something unlike most kids, he actually enjoys – and needs the extra time to get everything done, like the overachiever he is.

He, Craig, and Clyde are sat together at the back of their home classroom, enjoying a rare free period before at two forty-five they pile into English class next door. Tweek shares this class with them, which is part of the reason the topic of conversation arose in the first place. That and Craig had yet to tell his friends about the previous evening’s disastrous non-encounter with their ex-friend.

“Who cares at this point,” Clyde continues, exasperated. Perched on the edge of Token’s desk, he moves to take the seat in front when Token shoos him off. “Come on, Craig, why can’t you just leave it alone? We all wanna know what the hell happened, but he’s had like months to come and talk to us. Any of us! He just doesn’t care.”

Before, Craig would have been inclined to agree. But then Tweek had tracked him down on Skype and asked to talk. Now the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if something sinister has been going on all along.  

Or maybe he’s letting his imagination run wild and all he really wants is some kind of reason. Some logical – or illogical - reason for Tweek to just stop coming to school; stop hanging out with them; stop replying to worried calls, and texts and social media messages.

Craig had kept it up for longer than the others. He was certain he could get through to him eventually. Tweek had always, always relied on him, always trusted him. He would tell him everything, no matter how important it was, or how mundane. Tweek always came to Craig first, and Craig was confident that hadn’t changed.

Except it had. After just over six months of desperately trying to contact Tweek, nearly daily begging his parents to let him see him, Craig sent a final text to Tweek.

_I miss you_.

On that day he’d cried in his concerned mother’s arms when she’d gently tapped on his bedroom door and poked her head in to ask him if he was alright. That simple question had unleashed six months’ worth of pain he couldn’t hold in anymore, couldn’t shove behind indifference.

The day after, he tried to forget all about Tweek Tweak. And maybe he’d managed it a few years later, or so he thought. A kid like Tweek wasn’t so easy to forget about.

Craig is tapping his fingers on his desk. “Maybe it really was the aliens,” he offers nonchalantly, nail of his index fingers following grooves in the wood. “Not exactly the most unlikely thing to happen in South Park, right?”

“It wasn’t aliens, Craig,” Clyde answers, bordering on waspish. “We used to see him in his window all the time. How many times are we gonna have this dumb conversation?”

Craig doesn’t have the energy to argue. They’ll probably have the conversation again. They’ll say exactly the same things, go over exactly the same points, come to the same lack-of conclusion.

At two forty-five, Craig is surprised and pleased to find Tweek is actually in class. He barges Kevin out of the way in his rush to occupy the seat in front of Tweek, despite Kevin’s protest that it was his seat and he always sat there. Luckily Kevin knows better than to argue with Craig Tucker on a mission.

The chair screeches a little as Craig flops onto it backwards, making Tweek’s desk just about reachable. Arms folded along the edge of it, he fixes Tweek with an accusatory, pointed (but gentle all the same) stare. What a sucker. “You stood me up.”

Tweek yelps, knocking his pencil case to the floor. “Gah, I know, I’m sorry!” he murmurs, bending to retrieve his pens and pencils and rearrange them neatly side-by-side. God it’s good to hear his voice again, deeper, but still soft and tentative. “M-my parents found me climbing out the window and put the lock back on it, and took away my laptop as punishment.”

“What?” Craig answers, dumbfounded. “They did what? A lock? What for? Can they do that?”

“Too many questions!” Tweek shrieks. Clyde’s tut a few desks over doesn’t go unnoticed. He’s pretending he isn’t listening, but he can definitely hear every word.

“Okay, sorry,” Craig says giddily. Tweek is talking to him. He’s talking to him. “So they put a lock on your window? Why?”

“So I couldn’t get out.”

Craig has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Yeah, I got that, but why?”

“I c-can’t say.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“Can’t.”

“Tweek, come on. You wanted to talk to me yesterday.”

“I still do!” Tweek answers. “But I—“

Their English teacher has a habit of slamming the door every time he walks into the classroom. He thinks it commands attention, but everyone just thinks he’s a bit of a dick.

Tweek immediately quietens at the noise though, and reluctantly Craig turns back to his own desk to avoid getting himself into trouble. Again. He’s not exactly a favourite pupil. But he behaves himself for the full hour, and not even once finds himself told to stop talking, or to get on with the assignment, or told to wait outside for a severe talking to after class. The latter he didn’t want to risk because who knew when he’d get Tweek’s attention again.

He’s not letting him out of his sight. The second the bell rings Craig is on his feet, throwing his stuff into his tatty old rucksack, and then swooping to snatch Tweek’s off the floor, ignoring Tweek’s weak protest. “I’ll carry this. Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

“Craig, I can’t,” Tweek says. When he lunges for his bag, Craig holds it up out of his reach. Tweek jumps and misses. “D-dammit, when did you become a fucking giant!”

“I’m nearly six foot now,” Craig says, smug. “You’re still a pipsqueak.”

“I am not!” Tweek cries, jumping up again. “Give me my bag!”

“Agree to get a drink with me first.”

“I’m too young to drink.”

 “Not alcohol, you dipshit. Just a milkshake or something. I’m buying.”

“Okay, fine,” Tweek sighs, defeated. “One drink.”

\---

Tweek point blank refuses to touch the jar on the desk in front of him. He’s sitting as far back as the stool will allow, clutching the edge of his seat so tightly his knuckles are ice-white. Clyde, his lab partner for this particular project, is feeling a mixture of anxiety and annoyance at Tweek’s refusal to help him – especially since plant biology is not his strong point. Actually, none of the sciences are his strong point.

Inside the jar is a damp paper towel and a fat, brown seed squashed against the glass like a pudgy cheek. Alongside it are little orange pots of dark soil labelled by seed type with a rectangular piece of card, and three other jars awaiting their own seeds. They’re experimenting with seed-types and external stimuli to determine optimum growing conditions for each plant.

“What are you freaking out about?” Clyde asks, wishing Craig was there. Unfortunately, he’s at the dentist having his braces tightened. Lucky bastard.

How does he usually manage Tweek’s crazy?

Clyde imagines Craig’s voice in his head, the way it softens when he’s placating their friend, the kinds of words he uses or avoids. Taking a breath, Clyde says in the most Craig-like tone of voice he can muster, “look just…talk to me. What’s the problem?”

“N-nothing!” Tweek answers.

Clyde’s shoulders sink. He doesn’t have Craig’s patience.“Don’t make me do all the work, Tweek. I suck at this stuff!”  
“Maybe you should do all the work for a change,” Token pipes up from beside them. All of his seeds are already planted, watered and labelled with neat, bold handwriting. Token is more than used to Tweek’s quirks. “All you’ve got to do is plant some seeds. If Tweek doesn’t want to do it, let him be. I’m sure he has his reasons. He can just do another part of the project.”

Dammit, why did Token have to be so reasonable and understanding towards Tweek, but not him. How was that fair? “But it’s a joint project!” Clyde says irritably. “We’re supposed to work together!”

Token rolls his eyes. “Tweek, how come you don’t want to touch the seeds?” he asks calmly. “You weirded out about germs or something?”

“Yes, germs. It’s the germs,” Tweek says immediately, far too quickly for it to be the truth. “Clyde, you do it. I-I’ll do extra on the report.” Clyde opens his mouth to argue, but that actually doesn’t sound like such a bad thing. “I just don’t wanna touch them, okay. Don’t make me touch them and I’ll do anything else.”

“Okay, okay,” Clyde says, waving him off. “Token…can you help me?”

“Oh for the love of—“ Despite his obvious irritation, Token does as he’s asked. He doesn’t want to see either of these two idiots he calls his friends fail before they’ve even got started, so he diligently completes phase one of the project, dusting soil from his hands once he’s done. “There. Are you both happy now? Jesus.”

“You’re the best!” Clyde says, grinning since now he can do the absolute bare minimum and let Tweek handle the rest. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

He leans over to grab the aluminium foil to cover the jars. His elbow catches one and sends it rolling towards Tweek and instinctively Tweek’s hands shoot out to catch it before it smashes to the floor, but despite the jar cracking and shattering in his palms, it never so much as falls a few inches.  

Blood pours from Tweek’s hands, smattering the lab’s grotty grey floor with splodges of red. He stares dazedly into his palms as Clyde and Token hurry to help him, grabbing paper towels to push into his palms, yelling for the teacher. She hurries over, taking Tweek by the shoulders and ushering him away from the desk.

“Token, Clyde, please can you clean up the mess,” she instructs. “I’ll take Tweek to the nurse.”

Quickly Tweek is directed out of the room, leaving behind a surprised and stunned classroom of students who take the lack of teacher as an opportunity to chat, projects quickly abandoned. Dutifully Token grabs a mop and a broom from the store cupboard to clear away the blood and glass.

“Hey look,” Clyde says as they clean, pointing at a spot on the floor where the seed from the jar had fallen in the commotion. From the centre of it several thick, pale, curling green shoots have erupted. “Was…that the seed from the jar that broke?”

Token goes to shake his head. “It can’t be… how could…” He scratches his head, astonished. “How the hell…”

\---

 


	3. Pull

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait... :)
> 
> You can harass me on tumblr should you want to!: Flynntervention

Tweek is laughing so hard he’s snorting, which makes him laugh even harder, and snort with greater gusto. Craig is in hysterics just from listening to him, trying to tease but too wrapped up in squealingly giggling into his pillow, tightly holding Tweek’s hand.  

They’d been watching YouTube Dog Fails, one of Craig’s favourite pastimes. Both of them had erupted into hysterics within minutes and hadn’t been able to stop, egging one another on, tickling and prodding, rolling around and wrestling and play-fighting beneath Craig’s enormous comforter.  

And now they’re nose-to-nose, their breathing settling, though their hearts continue to pound. 

Tweek moves first. It’s a fleeting kiss, delicate, unsure. Craig gasps at the sudden pressure of his lips, warm and pliant, his eyes wide, eyebrows high. 

“Dude,” he whispers, “you kissed me.”

Tweek looks remarkably calm. A little shy, reticent, but calm. Craig on the other hand is a hurricane of emotions he can’t grasp or define. Tweek kissed him. His best friend kissed him?

“Yeah. Guess I did.”

“Why?”

“Why not? You’re my best friend and I think you’re cute.”

“W-what?” Craig stammers. “Y-you...I...what!?”

Tweek laughs softly, maybe a little nervously. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal or anything,” he says, sounding disappointed, his eyes falling to where their hands are still entwined. Still Craig is stunned, staring, scrutinising for hints Tweek is making fun of him. But when Tweek disentangles himself and pulls back the comforter, Craig snatches him back, pulling him tight to his chest. 

Carefully Tweek winds his arms around him, burying his nose into his shoulder. In those moments of tumultuous feelings, one terrifying, wonderful emotion wraps around Craig as tightly as Tweek. Love. 

Craig Tucker has gone and tripped head first into a coffee cup of love.

\--- 

Two months later, Tweek is torn straight out of Craig’s life.

\---

“Are…are you really gonna drink that?” Tweek asks, eyeing the frothing, sparkling pink concoction in a sundae glass. It’s topped with snow white whipped cream avalanching over the rim of the glass, with raspberry sprinkles and an edible straw. “Dude. That’s disgusting.”   
  
“It’s not,” Craig answers, sliding the straw out of the sweet terrarium of sugar and sucking it clean, dropping it back in before popping the cherry on top between his lips. Around tying the stem with his tongue into a knot he finishes, “it’s delicious.”   
  
It’s Craig’s favourite. Any day he’d take this over alcohol or cigarettes or weed. And just lately he’s gotten a taste for the latter. But this. The Miracle Milkshake, is like Eden in a sundae glass, and it’s worth every cent of his six dollars ninety-five.   
  
He looks over at Tweek cradling his plain vanilla milkshake. It’s an irony. Tweek is far from vanilla. Tweek is salted double caramel, sour and sweet and extra. He’s unusually calm and still and he certainly isn’t having a conversation with the solitary flower in a vase placed in the centre of the table.   
  
Craig rubs his palms over his thighs. Was it time to ask about that, the weirdness, the talking to trees? Is that what this is about, Tweek admitting to whatever mental illness he has because what else could it be? He talks to trees. Frequently. And doesn’t seem to engage in conversation with people anymore. With Craig.   
  
“So, uh,” Craig begins, shifting in his seat. Tweek hasn’t touched his milkshake, swiping the straw around the edge of the glass, sweeping stray droplets from the tapered sides and sucking them into his mouth so they never reach the table. The foray into a “conversation” has made his whole form tense, startled like a rabbit. A frazzled one.   
  
Tweek’s fingernails are bloodied and ragged, tatty with hangnails and “bad friends”. Right now he’s nibbling away on one, wetting his lips, nibbling, dragging one nail under another to clean them. His leg is bouncing so hard it’s hitting the table.   
  
“So,” he repeats, eyes darting around, finding everything but Craig.   
  
Craig shoves out a cough, fiddling with his straw. “So,” he says again, “what did you want to talk about?”   
  
Tweek grips his glass with both hands, sliding it back and forth. Craig wonders if he’s about to bolt, but Tweek sinks in his seat, staring down at his hands. He examines them, brushing his own palms, up to dry fingertips and down to his scar littered wrists. Craig wants to ask about that but he doesn’t. He knows better.   
  
“Do you think my hands look weird?” he asks. Craig cocks his head, looking at them. He holds his own hand out, patient, and Tweek settles his own in Craig’s palm-up. He’s trembling, but he doesn’t pull away. “They feel weird. They always feel weird.”   
  
“Weird how?” Craig asks though distracted, the opportunity to touch Tweek for the first time in years like getting to eat after starving.  He pets and strokes, familiarising himself, reminding himself, finally entwining their fingers and squeezing. In his chest his heart is thunderous, in his belly is warmth, and lower, feelings he has to thrust aside. It’s all coming back too fast. But he doesn’t let go.   
  
“Weird how, Tweek?”   
  
Tweek jerks free. He tucks his hands between his thighs, sinking low in his seat. “Sorry. Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve asked you here,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “It’s been too long. I thought…I thought that this would be easier but…”   
  
Craig reaches across the table for something of him to grasp, though there’s nothing there. There’s never anything there. Instead his fists clench on the table top. “Tweek, don’t pull away. Not again,” he pleads, ducking his head to catch his eyes, to get him to just look at him, to make him understand what this means to him.   
  
Suddenly, certainly, Tweek raises his head. “I’m not normal,” he says, quiet and severe. It makes Craig laugh, but Tweek doesn’t see the funny side, an irritated noise reaching his throat. “Don’t laugh.”   
  
“Babe, you’ve never been normal and that’s okay.”   
  
Eyes locking, they both pause. It’s an old pet name. Craig thinks it funny…(embarrassing?) it fell so easily from his lips, but from his cheeks to his neck Tweek is mottled with pink. He’s withdrawing quickly and Craig panics, thoughts frantic. “I…sorry, it slipped out. Please, Tweek, talk to me,” he begs, leaning as far forward as he can. “You wanted to talk to me. So talk to me.”

It's too late.

“This was a mistake,” Tweek says, voice soft. Then his voice is tight, staccato. “Oh God, oh Jesus, I can’t do this!”

“Tweek, it’s okay!” Craig tries, and slides from his side of the booth, ready to nestle in on Tweek’s side, curl his arms around him like old times and settle him down. But before he can even leave his seat Tweek is up, scrambling for his things, his pristine messenger bag and his pallid orange puffed jacket, hauling the bag strap over his head and throttlingly tightly holding the coat neck.

“Calm down!” Craig continues. If this isn’t mistake enough, he grabs Tweek by the shoulders, and like a cornered animal Tweek shrieks, throwing him off and petulantly stomping towards the revolving doors, shoving away Craig’s every attempt to placate and calm, to just get him to at least  _ sit back down _ .

“You’re so fucking controlling!” Tweek yells as he reaches the doors, other patrons now watching the scene unfold, staff casting looks between themselves, wondering if they should intervene in what looks like a lover’s quarrel.

_ You’re so fucking controlling _ .

It isn’t the first time Tweek has said that to Craig. He pauses, eyes wide, hurt mostly by the memory of before. But it fuels his sudden anger, and he takes hold of the energy. “Well God  _ dammit _ , Tweek!” he yells in return, “You’re always  _ out of control!” _

He regrets it the moment he says it. Craig feels sick to his stomach. And yet, at the same time, this familiar situation, screaming at one another, the back and forth of it. Craig losing control of his emotions again and again and again. All because of the enigma standing in front of him, who  _ invited  _ him, who wanted to talk, who’s been MIA for  _ years _ with no explanation.

Craig snatches him up by his collar before he can leave, dragging him close. “You don’t get to be mad at me,” he hisses, eyes stinging with hot tears, years of tears never shed, “because you fucking disappeared, and then you invited me to talk, and now you’re fucking bailing on me! Again!”

“Get the fuck off me, man,” Tweek growls, though he doesn’t struggle, arms limp at his sides.

“I deserve an explanation.”

“You’re so fucking entitled. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Craig softens. His shoulders sag, his grip loosens and falls altogether. He’s been too pushy, too impatient. Maybe his eagerness to find an answer has made him lose control himself. Because right now he isn’t in control, and for Craig Tucker, that won’t do.

He steps back, fists hiding in his pockets. “No…no, you’re right. You don’t. I just…” He sucks in a breath, sweeping his tongue over his lips. “I’m sorry, Tweek. I just… I’ve just missed you.”

Tweek looks him over. Craig both loves and hates the way he drinks him in, scrutinises him like a show dog. Hates it and loves it at the same time because at least Tweek is looking at him, really seeing him. Even if in anger. 

And then he's gone, the revolving doors spinning behind him. 

—-

“Can you stop being such a prick?” Clyde cries after Craig has shoved him hard into his locker Friday afternoon.. The action has made a crowd of students gather around them eager for a fight, for the drama, feral and rabid, like a pack of slobbering hungry wolves. 

It had been a week. Tweek hadn’t emerged even once.

“You’ve been a total asshole all week, man. You..you knocked Kevin’s lunch tray out of his hand, you’ve back-talked like every teacher, you flipped off the  _ principal _ ” He’s ticking off every incident on his fingers. “And you’ve been snappy with all of us and you wouldn’t sit with us for lunch or even for home room! You’ve been no fun at all! It’s like...like  _ that time _ all over again.”

Craig’s expression darkens at the subtle prod at that very painful memory. But as soon as Craig notices the attention he’s getting he backs down, stepping away, irritably massaging his neck. Clyde is adjusting his clothes, straightening himself out. Honestly Craig is surprised he hasn’t thrown a punch or at least shoved him back. He probably deserves it.  

“Sorry, dude,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly. 

“Sorry?” Clyde says, understandably snippy. He’s been on the other side of Craig’s temper many times, but his attitude this week? Downright weird. “Wanna tell me why the fuck you flipped out just then?”

“No,” Craig answers, going to his locker opposite and wrenching it open, sliding books into their spot, neatly arranged. It’s actually a little unsettling how tidy it is. Ordinarily Clyde would royally take the piss out of him for it, mess some things up for good measure and risk anywhere from a sharp remark to a shove. Instead, Clyde clucks his tongue, gripping Craig by the shoulder. Craig shrugs him off once more, giving him a look that in no uncertain terms says “do not touch me”. 

But Clyde is unperturbed.”You wanna stop being such an emo bastard for five seconds and like open up or something?” he growls, glancing warily at nearby students. He knows Craig, knows he’s a private person, and he doesn’t want to rock the boat. Or flip it over altogether. 

“Open up about what?” Craig answers, slamming his locker shut and shouldering his rucksack. 

“Craig, for fuck’s sake…” Clyde mutters, carding a hand through his hair. It easily falls back into place. “We all know you’re upset about Twe—“

“Don’t say it,” Craig snaps, barging past. Clyde swings his own rucksack over his head and hurries after him, worried. He wishes Token was around to help. Finds he’s saying that a lot to himself lately, the more closed off Craig gets, the more out-of-control. 

When Craig flips him off, Clyde snaps.

“Tweek.  _ Tweek _ !” Clyde shouts, “ Tweek, Tweek, Tweek! Hear me, I’m saying it!”

Craig pauses, glaring over his shoulder,  _ daring _ him to push just a bit more. 

“Just ‘cause you wanna bone him and he’s ghosting you  _ again _ doesn’t mean you get to take it out on--!”

His mouth snaps shut when Craig slides his rucksack down his arm, flexing his fingers. He takes a predatory step. Another.

But then Token is there, and he’s stepping between them before Craig launches, gripping his shoulders and squeezing. Voice low, placating, he murmurs, “It’s okay, Craig. He’s just upset because he’s worried about you.” Craig deflates, glancing over Token’s shoulder to Clyde who no longer looks angry. A kicked puppy has never been a more appropriate phrase for his expression. 

Bending, Craig once more shoulders his rucksack, and heads to the bus stop without another word.

\---

It’s just past four that afternoon when Laura Tucker softly raps on Craig’s bedroom door. When she doesn’t get an answer, she softly calls his name. Still nothing. Craig had slammed his door on his way in - not unusual, but then hadn’t spoken a word, hadn’t grabbed a ton of barbecue potato chips, hadn’t asked what was for dinner whilst rooting through the fridge. 

Knowing she might well be risking his wrath, quietly she opens the door. 

Craig is lying curled up on his side. He’s still wearing his coat and shoes from school, and his planet covered curtains are tugged closed, only a slither of fading sunlight streaking the sheets, splitting Craig in half. 

“Sweetheart?” Laura calls softly. She eyes the room, unusually messy for her son. The most delicate of hiccups reaches her ears and her instinctive apprehension turns immediately to worry. 

Swiftly she crosses the room, sitting beside him. She doesn’t speak, simply lays a motherly hand on his hip, stroking. It unleashes something in Craig, and he sits up, curling into her as close as he can be. He’s quiet, but his shaking shoulders say everything. 

Laura suspects why her usually deadpan, matter-of-fact eldest is in this state, having been privy to snippets of conversations with Craig’s friends. Feeling helpless, for now all she can do is hold him and soothe him. Pulling him tight to her, she lightly brushes his neck the way she always has done since the day he was born, until he’s slowly lulled to sleep. 

 

\---


	4. Push

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re not a grown up, no read. Some sexual content etc etc. 
> 
> These boys are idiots.

Craig hasn’t realised where he’s been walking until he sees him. The day is brisk, but the sun is bright, making the morning too out-of-focus, too hazy, like a sun-soaked dream. Craig doesn’t do sunglasses (says they make people look like asses, and there’s a reason it’s in the word), so he has to squint, and for a moment he isn’t certain if Tweek Tweak really is across the street from him outside his house, idly chit-chatting with a silvery Douglas Fir that’s seen better days.

Tweek is dressed in a purple, short sleeved button-up and fashion tatty jeans rolled up to his shins, accompanied by a pair of… _Vans_...Craig thinks, a thick, heavy looking pale blue scarf draped loosely around his neck.

What the _fuck_.

Craig bristles at the sight of him, his anger from the ice cream parlour and being ignored for a week straight hurtling head-to-toe through his bones. His heart stammers, and in moments he’s crossing the street, fuming, falling all over again at the sight of his wild locks and wilder eyes, the way he bobs on his toes and flits like a bird, a robin, bold and bolshie.

“ _Hey_ !” he snaps, when Tweek jerks in surprise, Craig taking pleasure in catching him off guard. “Where the fuck have you _been_?”

In the face of Craig’s temper, when Craig stops dead in front of him Tweek, to his credit, takes only a small step back out of surprise, not fright.

“D-don’t...don’t get so close to me, man!” he yells, hands balling into tight fists, his voice slightly muffled by his scarf. He tugs it down so he can breathe more easily.

Craig pauses only briefly, doesn’t want that to sting as much as it does, but he can’t help the stab of hurt. Once upon a time, Craig was the only one allowed close to him, the only one that could really be trusted. And Craig has revelled in it, felt so honoured, so warmed by the thought that he’s Tweek’s one and only.

“What the hell is your problem!?” he snaps, pushing that feeling into the pit of his stomach because it’s making him queasy, it’s dousing the fire in him.

His fingers flex nervously. Tweek casts his gaze away, folding his arms around himself. Craig almost falters at the subtle sign of regret, guilt? “Well!?”

“I have a lot of “problems”, okay!?” Tweek retorts, backing up. “Nngh-- K-keep your voice down in case my dad hears you…”

Craig’s brow knits. He softens just barely. “What does it matter if he hears?” Eyes darting around for anyone who might be listening or watching, he lowers his voice to a whisper, taking a step closer. “Has he hurt you?”

“I...no…” Tweek shakes his head, warily glancing back at his house. Richard’s car is on the drive (Craig assumes it’s his car, a near brand new Hyundai Sonota, symphony silver). “Why would you say that?”

Craig scoffs, throwing his arms up. “You’ve...I...I used to see you, in your window. And...and you said they _locked_ your window. Took your laptop away! They did all kinds of crap to you, Tweek, even before you just vanished.”

Tweek shuffles until he’s out of sight from the front window, slightly bowed as if trying to make himself as small as possible. It’s a strange thing for him to do when he’s used to Tweek filling a room with his presence, even if it’s just because he’s ranting about gnomes or aliens or conspiracy theories.

He’s captivating.

Craig relents, stepping into the shadow of the fir, confident Tweek might throw him a bone this time. Or at least a fingernail.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Tweek says quietly, swaying slightly as if to comfort himself. Craig glances over him, taking him in, how he’s grown and filled out. The curve of his biceps, his forearms, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his (what Craig assumes are) designer clothes fit him just right, makes him slowly lick his lips. “I’m just...I’m not supposed to talk to anyone and my dad is right inside. He’ll be mad if he finds out and I’m only just, like, getting him back on side, dude.”

“”Anyone””? Craig repeats, incredulous. “Like _anyone_ , anyone?”

Nodding solemnly, Tweek peers around the fir to double check it’s still all quiet. It is. “Look, I—nngh, it’s complicated!” he yelps, throwing his arms up as he casts another wary glance toward the house. Anger already faltering, Craig snatches up Tweek’s hands, squeezing them gently. Tweek doesn’t pull away, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“You don’t..” he begins, briefly hanging his head before squarely meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me everything, just tell me one thing, okay?”

Tweek nods. “Are you in danger?”

Tweek smiles weakly, sighing. “I...the thing is—“

“ _Tweek_.”

Both of them flinch, Richard Tweak emerging from behind the fir. Arms folded, his eyes are narrowed, narrowed specifically at Craig who holds the stare, challenging. Richard doesn’t falter.   

“Dad, it—“

“What are you doing here,Tucker boy?” Richard says, words razor sharp. He stands straight in front of him, his arms folded.  “I don’t believe you were invited so why are you harassing my boy?”

“I’m not harassing him! I just wanted to talk to him. We’re friends.”

Richard eyes him, gaze momentarily settling on their entwined fingers. “Why are you holding hands? Is something going on here?”

Tweek jumps away, tucking his hands into his armpits. “N-no, dad. Craig was just leaving.”

“No I—“ Craig begins to protest, cut off by Tweek’s sharp glare; not nasty but filled with warning.

Richard looks his son over. A strange, wide smile overcomes him. Taking Tweek by the shoulders he squeezes them, and then cups his head in his hands, lightly jostling him. “You’re my talented boy, aren’t you,” he says, tilting his head this way and that as if searching for clues of misdemeanor. “Go on inside. Lunch is ready.”

Tweek’s eyes dart to Craig. Suspicious and concerned, Craig ignores the hint to _leave, just leave_. Instead, he changes tactics.  

“Sir, I was just worried,” he says, eyes as doleful and sincere as he can manage. “Tweek wasn’t at school all week. I saw him across the street and wanted to check he’s okay.”

“Well now you have and you can leave. Come on, son, time to go inside,” Richard says, voice clipped and stern, a father’s tone with an unsettling trill to it. Tweek throws a mournful look Craig’s way, weakly waving as he hurries inside. When Richard Tweak rounds on Craig, he squares his shoulders, taking advantage of his height, even if his bulk (lack of) doesn’t do him many favours. “What are you up to, Tucker?”

Craig balks. “Up to?” he repeats, shaking his head. “I’m trying to catch up with my best friend.”

Richard scoffs, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re his ex-boyfriend and I catch you holding hands. I tolerated it then because it was good for business but things have changed,” he says curtly. “Stay away from Tweek. Now get off my front yard.”

Richard waits until Craig has skulked down to the pavement and crossed the street before he heads back inside. Craig gets the feeling he’s being watched from the window, but he doesn’t turn to look, simply flips him the bird over his shoulder -- just in case.

\---

At precisely 10pm that evening, Craig is splayed out in bed, scrolling through pages of porn to find exactly the kind he’s looking for, something to help him relax and stop thinking about Tweek-fucking-Tweak (although it’s curious he’s ended up in the “blonds” tag). When a message pops up at the bottom right of his screen, his face flushes red to read it’s Tweek, as if somehow he can sense through the screen what he’s up to.

Quickly he closes every browser (Incognito mode, he’s not an idiot and he has a nosy sister), and opens up the message, heart thudding.

_I_want_out: hey dude_

_Craig_Tucker: U got your laptop back!?_

_I_want_out: Found out whr dad’s been hiding it. Christ tho he’ll kill me if he finds out I took it back_

_Craig_Tucker: Tweek is he hurting you..???_

_I_want_out: look I don’t wanna talk about this now can we talk about something else_

_Craig_Tucker: Alright but I’m not letting this go._

_You gotta tell me what’s going on  your dad used to like me, I don’t get it._

_I_want_out: He got me a Netflix account recently there’s so much stuff to watch_

_Craig_Tucker: Tweek, come on…_

_I_want_out: I told you I don’t wanna talk about it. So like I’ll log off if you don’t drop it._

_Craig_Tucker: okay okay :(_

_I_want_out: did you do your English homework???_

_Craig_Tucker: Ugh no! I totally forgot!_

_It’s so hard as well fuck_

_I_want_out: want some help?_

_Craig_Tucker: uh yeah!!! Thanks!!!_

_I_want_out: :)_

_Craig_Tucker: :) x_

—

“Craig?” Tweek says, lifting his head from the book open on Craig’s desk. They’re doing homework together, as they do every Friday night, Craig sprawled on his front on his bed, swinging his legs back and forth.

“Just a sec,” Craig answers, finishing the sentence he’s writing. It’s physics, his forte, and the one class he doesn’t mind getting homework for. Once done he slots his pen behind his ear and smiles over at Tweek. “What is it, babe?”

Tweek is fiddling with his book, repeatedly flicking pages at the corner. He hasn’t got much done, thoughts too occupied with what he’s been trying to get the courage to ask all evening. Noticing his unease, Craig sits up, shuffling to the edge of the bed and leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Babe?” he says again, but more softly, coaxing.

“CanIGiveYouAHandjob!?” Tweek says in a rush, then covers his face with his hands, burying them in his book. “I’m s-sorry, that just came out, I should’ve asked a different way, ignore me!”

Craig is still processing the question. Tweek is bordering on meltdown, groaning into his now crossed arms and mumbling reprimands to himself. It makes Craig stand to attention (in more ways than one), standing to cross the room and resting his hand on Tweek’s bony shoulder. His cheeks are burning, but he knows this is something he wants, has wanted for a while now.

“I...I’d really like that,” he manages, voice cracking. Tweek’s trembling eases. He sits up, looking up at his boyfriend with wide eyes. Craig smiles nervously, carding a hand through short, dark hair and tussling it lightly.  “I’ve been thinking about it, too, so…”

“You have?” Tweek answers shakily, sitting up straight. There’s a look in his eyes Craig knows is dangerous, knows he should be wary of, but he’s not. Tweek makes him feel fearless and confident, and he’ll never back down. He’ll never give him up.

“I have,” Craig replies, assured. “I...you’re gorgeous and…” Craig clears his throat, looking at his shoes. “...I love you.”

The following silence is agonising. Craig’s cheeks burn hotter, like fuel to the fire. Did he say too much? Was it too soon?

But then Tweek is on his feet, is gripping him by his lapels and urging him backwards towards the bed. “Lie down,” he commands, tongue darting over his lips when Craig does, frantically, gangly limbs wriggling his body up to the pillows where he settles. Tweek sinks down at his side, aura the opposite of what it had been just movements before.

Green eyes are lust-dark. He looks predatory, like he might devour every inch of Craig, succulent and pliant and eager beside him. When Tweek kisses him, Craig mewls in the back of his throat, gripping Tweek’s hair at the base of his neck.

They’ve dry-humped before, and it’s incredible, but that has been their limit. This... _this_ is entirely new, wanted, _needed,_ the next logical step in their sexual exploits as boyfriend and boyfriend.

Tweek curls a leg around Craig’s, tugging slightly to spread his legs. Wet, noisy kisses litter his neck, his tongue sweeping from Craig’s shoulder up the line of his throat and down again.

 

Craig squirms, already half hard in his jeans. Awkwardly he slides an arm underneath Tweek, tugging him as close as he can and kissing him, open-mouthed and needy and wanton.

Tweek doesn’t stand on ceremony, rarely does. Flicking open the button of Craig’s jeans and dragging the zip down, suddenly his hand is palming him through his boxers, rough and sure in a way only another boy can be with a guy’s dick. Craig feels a little like some pedigree at a show, groped and manhandled, and he _loves_ it. Loves it because it’s Tweek, wants to be manhandled more, pushed and pinned and ravaged.

It’s Tweek’s long fingered hands, bitten nails, scratching through thick dark hair; finally grasping him, sizing him up, and all the while Craig simply lets him do as he pleases, panting heavily, wetly against Tweek’s neck.

“Fuck…” he whimpers, swears his voice is an octave higher. He can’t get any redder, so he doesn’t care, curling Tweek further into him, fingers tightening in his hair, encouraging with soft cries and moans.

Tweek is relentless, excited, pumping and massaging, teasingly patting the sticky tip of Craig’s cock, and then pumping him again. Craig’s legs are shaking, the pit of his stomach like rolling lava. He isn’t going to last much longer, dragging Tweek closer to him with both arms now, hips jerking into his hot, sticky hand.

“Oh God, Oh God,” he chants, canting, arching, shamelessly chasing the eruption he can feel on the brink.  

And then it’s there, hot, heavy, _powerful_ as Tweek’s hold over him is.

Craig comes to to see Tweek eyeing his hand in rapt fascination, webs of cum strung between his fingers. Expression curious and inquisitive, Tweek sucks his middle finger into his mouth, giving Craig a visual for future sexual endeavours he isn’t yet ready for.

“Jesus, Tweek,” he whispers, voice raw and low. “You’re gonna destroy me some day…”

—

Craig’s eyes light up at the sight of Tweek Tweak walking into class Monday morning. His eyes look heavier than usual, and he’s wearing thick black leather gloves despite the warmer weather. Yet, he’s also wearing a simple but pristine pea green t-shirt with dark grey jeans, and a pair of black moccasins. Ordinarily Tweek’s hair had been half swept up into a small bun, but today soft curls are bobbing free. It makes Craig realise something: he hasn’t seen Tweek’s hair unleashed since the day he came back.

And the sight makes Craig’s heart tumble and his stomach fill with adoring warmth and fierce heat at the same time. _Fuck_ , is he ever _cute_.

They’d chatted online until well beyond midnight, nothing too deep or serious, gentle, easy topics. It was like old times, like nothing had happened. But Craig was still desperately curious, desperately _concerned_ Tweek was in danger, and his emotional distancing from him was draining and infuriating.

Leaning forward, Craig jabs Kevin in the arm. Kevin yelps and turns, accusingly and confusedly rubbing his arm (though he wouldn’t dare retaliate). “Move,” Craig orders, gesturing to the empty desk on their right.

Kevin sighs and rolls his eyes, knowing by now there is no point in arguing with Craig Tucker. Quickly he gathers his books together and shuffles over to the other desk, Craig’s gaze following his path, Kevin plopping down just as Tweek spots Craig.

It’s the only remaining seat. Tweek’s steps falter, eyes flitting between the empty seat and Craig sat behind it.

“Mister Tweak, do hurry up and sit down already.”

Their teacher’s disengaged, monotonous voice startles Tweek into action. Ducking his head, he skitters to the empty seat, avoiding eye contact at all costs and gingerly perching, leaning sideways to pull textbooks out of his bag, followed by at least six pens, two highlighters, a ruler, a pencil and an eraser.

Craig frowns slowly. “Tweek,” he whispers, leaning as far forward across the desk as he’s able to - luckily for his gangly ass, pretty far. “Hey, _Tweek_.”

Tweek vaguely inclines his head, hands folded in his lap. “ _What_?”

“Hi?” Craig responds, blinking. The hostility in Tweek’s voice is just another way he’s already managed to hurt his feelings. It’s getting annoying.

“Hi,” Tweek replies flatly.

“Did I do something?” Craig asks, casting his mind back to their online conversation, searching his memory for any potential slight or thrown word. Nothing comes to mind.

“Stop talking to me, we’re in class,” Tweek hisses, gripping the edges of his seat and shuffling it forward. The noise of legs screeching across the floor gain him a few looks, and he hides his face behind a cupped hand, cheeks pink.

Craig has to leave it at that when the teacher begins. Throughout class he stews, annoyed and frustrated. Just when they take a step forward, together, Tweek is shoving him back to the startling line all over again.

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair, but he isn’t going to give up. When the bell rings for lunch, Craig is quickly on his feet, diving for Tweek’s messenger bag and lifting it over his shoulder before Tweek has the chance to even pack away.

“Nngh, Craig, give me my bag,” he says, holding his hand out. “I still need to put my stuff away.”

Craig lifts the flap and pushes aside some other books to make room for the rest. Tweek sighs noisily, roughly shoving them in whilst Craig takes the opportunity to be nosy. There’s a flask - standard - textbooks, a tatty copy of Catch 22; a few pill bottles (interesting…), a delicious looking packed lunch; his phone plugged into a large, silver battery pack.

“You use your phone that much at school?” Craig says, pointing to it. Tweek tsks and yanks the flap of the bag down, sliding the buckles together.

“I play Pokemon Go on breaks,” he says defensively. “Give me my bag.”

“You play Pokemon? Me too! What level are you?” Craig answers. “I just got to 33.”

“Give me my _bag,_ Craig!”

Craig blinks, inclining his head, and slowly frowns. “Last night we were getting on great,” he says, voice starting to tremble with familiar annoyance. “What the hell did I do now!?”

“Boys!” Their teacher slams her hands down on the desk as they both start, looking over. Craig realises the classroom is completely empty. “Craig, give Tweek his bag and get out of my classroom. Now.”

Breathing heavily through his nose, Craig hooks Tweek’s bag back over his head, holding it out. He makes a point of letting it go just before Tweek reaches it, letting it drop to the floor. Glaring, Tweek bends to pick it up, securing it over his own head and rearranging his clothes. He’s still wearing those stupid-ass gloves.  

Swiping the back of his hand across his nose, Craig mutters, “you’re a dick”, shoving past him and out of the classroom where he finds Clyde waiting. “What?” he huffs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his navy blue baseball jacket, hiding his eyes with his head ducked .

Clyde looks over his shoulder, watching Tweek scurry from the room and down the hall, casting a cursory look their way. Clyde smiles gently, tapping Craig’s upper arm. “Wanna talk about it, dude?” he asks, certain the answer will be a steadfast “no”.

“Yeah,” Craig answers, lifting his head. His eyes are red. “Yeah, okay.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn’t intend to make Craig cry at the end of two chapters. But he is a sad boi. :(


	5. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flynntervention On Tumblr yada ya da :) Hope you enjoy chapter 5.

They go out to the bleachers where it’s quietest. Craig ascends to the top, long legs two at a time scaling the wooden slats with ease. His hands are still shoved in his pockets when he reaches the summit and sits, watching Clyde clumsily follow and finally, gingerly, perch beside him.

Clyde is not a fan of heights.

For a few moments they’re both quiet, watching the football team in the distance practice throws. The idle hum of students chattering on their break just about reaches them. Craig fidgets, knee bouncing, fingers twitching in his pockets. Eventually he draws his hands out and threads them on his lap instead, thumb massaging the centre of his palm like a button is there to turn off this feeling that has his stomach spinning like a dryer.

“So, how you doing?” Clyde says finally, simply. He’s sitting so close their thighs are nearly touching. With his knee he nudges Craig, an encouraging, friendly gesture. Craig doesn’t move away from the touch.  

He shrugs. “I...not great, honestly,” he answers, looking at his hands. He fiddles with his nails, systematically digging imaginary dirt from beneath each one before threading his fingers together again and nestling them tight between his thighs. “I just… I know I seem like I’m acting crazy. He’s making me  _ feel  _ crazy…”

“Tweek?” Clyde says softly, as if he doesn’t already know, and Craig nods. Inwardly he supposes the reason for his atrociously shitty mood has been obvious. And maybe he should’ve opened up before. His friends are good, they’re  _ normal _ ; for South Park, at least. But he’s Craig Tucker. He’s in charge of himself, in full control at all times. And damn does it piss him off that this crazy fucking dude can always make him lose control.

Clyde stretches his legs out in front of him, swinging his feet with the beat of band practice far across the field. “Look...I know I’ve been ragging on him a lot,” he begins, mournful, “but it’s only ‘cause I care about you, man. Ever since he came back you’ve...kinda been a mess.”

Craig scrubs the side of his face, hot from the midday sun. “I am a mess,” he admits, “but I can’t  _ help _ myself, he’s just so--” He makes a meaningless gesture with his hands, and then shrugs again when he can’t find the right thing to say. “I just...he’s all...and I...he...agh!”

Smiling sympathetically, Clyde pats his shoulder. “You’ve got it bad, huh?” he says. “Think you love him, still?”

Taken by surprise, every word in Craig’s throat sticks like his insides are made of hot, black tar. Yet his throat feels full, full of emotions he can’t voice, emotions he can’t reason with, can’t scare away. There are words but they don’t fit, and the right ones aren’t there. They’re never there. He can  _ never _ say the right  _ words _ .

“Hey, man,” Clyde says, soft, His hand shifts from his shoulder to his thigh, squeezing. Craig stares at his shoes, rocking, the bleachers creaking with the soothing movement. “Cry it out, okay? You’ll feel better. It gets rid of toxins and shit, I read.”

A short, snotty laugh erupts from Craig’s throat as he hangs his head, burying his face in his hands and crying,  _ sobbing _ , arms dropping over his head as if he can protect himself from the pain. When Clyde slides an arm around his shoulders, he doesn’t push him away. Instead he leans into his side and throws his arms around him, burrowing into him in a way he hasn’t since they were tiny.

“It’s okay, dude,” Clyde murmurs, rubbing his back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

\---

Honestly, Craig can’t believe how lucky he is.

Wherever they go, eyes follow. Tweek has a presence like no one Craig has ever known; a comet streaking across the sky, fiery, fierce, a force to be reckoned with, a force leaving a devastating crater in its wake.

Or maybe KELT-9b, that new planet with a comet’s tail Craig read about, hotter than any star ever known.

Craig is certainly in Tweek’s orbit.

Tweek is beautiful. Perfect. And just a look tumbles Craig’s stomach like a rug has just been ripped out from under him.

But today his love is being tested. Tested and jabbed and mocked.

They’re shopping.  _ Shopping _ . Craig is certain he’s never gone shopping with anyone but his mother (under duress). But here he is, trailing around after his boyfriend who has just received his wages. “Plus a little bonus for being my talented boy,” Richard always says when he hands over the wad of cash neatly sealed inside a rectangular white envelope, Tweek’s name on the front in perfect handwriting. He finishes with, “remember to be good.”

Craig doesn’t know why, but it makes his skin crawl.

Tweek, fingers flexing, eyes darting, nods aggressively and holds out a hand, pulling the money to his chest and scurrying off before anything else can be said, any more ridiculous rules laid at his feet.

In Craig’s defence, he’d at least pulled a face at Tweek’s suggestion. “I need new sheet music!” he’d cried, pouting at Craig’s expression and obvious lack of enthusiasm. At first that hadn’t seemed so bad: nip to the mall, go to the music store, leave. Nice and simple, and they could spend the rest of the day fooling around in Tweek’s basement living room.  

But a quick trip to the music store had turned into a quick trip to  _ Michael’s Crafts _ store, followed by a quick trip to  _ Cake Crafts _ , and then  _ Hot Topic _ and then they’d all rolled into one and Craig had no idea how this had happened or why he was laden with bags, standing outside a decadent window display where Tweek has his nose near pressed against the glass.

“Why have I gotta carry your shit?” Craig complains, awkwardly shuffling bags between his hands. When he drops one Tweek gives him a dirty look and Craig dips precariously to retrieve it.

“I’m carrying something, too!” Tweek protests, holding up a brown paper bag containing a brand new pair of Converse. They had Spider-Man on, Tweek’s favourite superhero, and he’d said he  _ absolutely could not resist _ . Craig no longer cared at that point, ushering him to the checkout queue and hoping beyond hope this was the last one.  

“A pair of  _ shoes _ , dude,” Craig huffs, rolling his eyes. He’s starting to feel antsy, irritation shivering along his spine into his voice. “You’re stronger than me, you can carry your own crap around.”

“I thought you were helping me,” Tweek says, affronted.

“ _ I  _ thought we were just “nipping into one store”,” Craig retorts, wondering if he should just drop it now or keep poking. “I  _ hate _ shopping, you know I do. But here you are dragging me around like some dumb girl’s straight-ass, slack-jawed jock boyfriend.”

Tweek scoffs at that. “That’s what you are, ‘cept you like cock.”

Caught off-guard by the heat in his words, Craig flushes. “ _ Excuse _ me?” he growls, bristling, unsure why he feels so embarrassed. It’s not like they haven’t started to throw the word around, just between themselves during their more intimate moments. But the implication is different now, insulting, degrading in the way it’s hissed.    

“If you don’t wanna help me, fuck off,” Tweek says snottily. “You can go fool around with  _ yourself _ later instead, since that’s all you ever wanna do these days.”

Craig’s voice hitches in pitch. “I do not!” he yelps, glancing around to see if anyone heard. “I  _ do not _ .”

“Yeah, sure,” Tweek grumbles. “I was gonna buy lunch as a thanks, but guess you don’t even wanna hang out with me at all if it doesn’t include what’s in my trousers.”

In a hurricane of confusion and hurt, Craig unceremoniously dumps every bag on the floor, Tweek screeching in protest and diving for some of the more delicate items, hanging them on his arms two at a time. “What the hell, Craig!”

“I’m going home,” Craig says, severe and cold. “Have fun with all the new crap you’ve bought with Daddy’s money,  _ again _ .”

“It’s  _ my _ money, I worked for it,” Tweek snaps. “But you wouldn’t know what working is like since you’re so goddamn lazy.”

Craig squares his shoulders, turning and marching towards the revolving exit doors.

“Come back, you jerk!” Tweek yells at his retreating back, scrabbling with his bags. For once, Craig ignores him.

\---

It was an insane idea. Completely and utterly insane. Bordering on stalkerish, Craig thinks, but he’s at his wits end and he deserves  _ something _ , anything to tell him what the fuck has been going on for the last three years, why Tweek was holed up - no, imprisoned - in this stupid-ass expensive house with a marble kitchen counter, original wooden floors, an out-house, four bedrooms, a goddamn pool...

Craig had always hated Tweek’s house, felt like an intruder, like he wasn’t good enough to be there despite Tweek’s insistence his parents adored him. “They get your whole family gifts at Christmas, Craig,” he’d laughed when Craig had voiced his discomfort when he was invited to spend the weekend there. “Of course you’re welcome here.”

Craig shudders at the memory.

An array of tools are in the bag on his shoulder. Not his dad’s tools but his mom’s, who has always been handier. He’s already scaled the side of the house, contemplating how grateful he is that he’s light and lithe and competent in climbing.

Although his balance on the roof tiles leaves a lot to be desired and he slips and trips towards the window, heart feeling securely in his mouth by the time he can grip the windowsill for balance.

Hand to chest Craig looks out into the road, realising he’s about to break into a house. He’s about to commit a crime. And more importantly, he’s about to find out what he’s been wanting to know for years. He hopes.

Craig likes to fix and improve. He’s always had to. And he has no trouble taking out a window lock and a window too, carefully propping it against the upper wall and wriggling his leg into the now empty space and sliding through.

The overwhelming stink he now knows relatively well immediately makes him pause. Tugging the sleeve of his jacket down over his hand he smooshes it to his nose and clambers the rest of the way in, eyes boggling at what greets him.

Rows upon rows of cannabis plants neatly arranged on the floor, on the desk, on shelves. There’s barely room to manoeuvre, barely a trace of Tweek left in this room at all. Even his bed is prey to it, plants atop the thick wooden head and footboard, a miniature forest of repugnance that makes Craig want to wretch.

Tentatively tip-toeing he searches for something,  _ anything _ , but he can barely reach a thing without nudging a plant here, tripping on a plant there. He wrenches open the doors of the desk and rifles, coming up with nothing and moving on to his dresser where he can only open the top two drawers. They’re simply filled with socks and underwear, t shirts and jeans, an everyday juxtaposition of what surrounds them.

“Craig!?”

Craig whips around to see Tweek in the doorway, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He’s dressed in his work uniform, tidy and pristine, a far cry from the boy Craig once knew who couldn’t button up his shirt or fold his socks or comb his hair.  

At a loss for words Craig dumbly, guiltily mutters, “you weren’t supposed to be here.”

“You broke into my  _ house _ !?” Tweek screeches, crossing the thin threshold to stand in front of him. Honestly, Craig figures he deserves to be mad about that part. “What are you doing here!? Are you  _ insane _ !?”

“Probably,” Craig mutters, thoroughly caught-out. He’s familiar with the Tweak schedule, when they work, when they’re home. He thought he was being clever. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“I forgot my keys!” Tweek shouts, throwing his arms up. “Did you  _ take my window out!?” _

“Yes,” Craig answers, realising he deserves to feel scandalised too. He looks around at the plants, feeling a swell of anger, of hurt, mistrust. “So you’re selling dope now?” he deadpans, gesturing at the rows of cannabis plants as if Tweek wouldn’t understand what he was talking about.

“No!” Tweek cries, standing between Craig and the high-driving foliage as if it’ll hide the evidence. Craig rolls his eyes. “It...it’s just my parents’ side business. You shouldn’t be here!”

Craig scoffs irritably, shaking his head. The stink is making him dizzy and nauseous, and all he wants is to climb back out of the window to smell fresh, clean air again. Instead, he folds his arms like a scolding parent, nodding at the plants. “They’re making you get involved in this crap? Dealing?”

“I don’t  _ deal.  _ And like you don’t smoke weed yourself!”

“I’m not a drug dealer, Tweek,” Craig snaps, lightly shoving him. “And I haven’t had drug problems in the past, either!”

Tweek shoves him back. “Oh fuck off, Craig, don’t you dare bring that up.”

“You could get into a ton of trouble! And why the hell are they in your  _ room _ .” Craig throws his arms up, incredulous this is even happening. Tweek had got clean from meth. He was coping. He was  _ living _ . Now this, fraught temptation right at the foot of his own bed.

“I look after them, that’s all. I don’t do any of the other stuff.”

“I should call the police.”

“Don’t you  _ dare _ .”

“Why not!? Your dad is taking advantage of you. Again!”

“It’s just a few plants!” Tweek challenges, fussing with them now, rearranging and lining them up. He jerks away when a solitary leaf brushes his arm, frantically rubbing the spot as if he’s been stung.

“That is not a  _ few _ ! I can barely see the damn floor! How are they even growing in here!? Where are the heat lamps?”

“They don’t need them.”

“What?” Craig says tightly, finding this whole experience as surreal as it is frustrating. The Tweek he remembers was never so secretive, so deceitful. He didn’t know  _ how _ to lie.

But this isn’t his Tweek anymore.

“They’re like...nngh….they’re a special kind.” Tweek’s voice is softer now. He kneels amongst the collection on the floor, cooing, carefully brushing knuckles over the plastic pots, doting like he’s caring for a child.

“Look, I don’t give a shit what kind they are. You’ve gotta get rid of them before someone finds out! I don’t care what your parents say.”

“ _ Craig,  _ you’re upsetting them!”

“...your  _ parents? _ ”

“The plants-- I….I mean…” Swiftly Tweek rises to his feet, gripping Craig by the shoulders to push him back towards the window. “It’s nothing. Look, you need to go.”

“I’m upsetting the plants? Jesus, you’re more cracked than ever!”

Tweek’s eyes flash with fury. He socks Craig squarely in the eye, and he stumbles backwards, grunting when he collides with the dresser, one of the pots shuddering and tumbling to the floor. Quick to retaliate Craig rises back to full height and snarls, giving back exactly what he got. Tweek yelps, tripping over one of the plants (they topple like dominos), landing on his ass with a thud that makes him whimper.

Craig has only a slither of sympathy. Enraged he climbs over him and grips him by the collar, slamming his shoulders into the floor. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?” he growls, shaking him, finally letting out an inch of his frustration. “I’m trying  _ so hard _ ! And you’re just...just--”

Tweek grips his forearms, but he doesn’t shove Craig away. He lets him shake him, waiting until he calms, waiting for the opportune moment to--

Craig has no idea what comes over him when he kisses him, rough and angry. Wrenching his arms free he pins Tweek’s above his head, threading their fingers together and squeezing. It’s remarkable Tweek kisses him back, squeezing back, whining low and hungry in the back of his throat and wrapping both legs around his middle, arching wantonly.  

Freeing his hands, Craig slides them up under Tweek’s ass, lifting him into his hips and grinding  _ hard _ , nipping Tweek’s reddened lower lip as he slowly, firmly thrusts. Every kiss drags more heat into the air, urges on their frantic movements until with a yell Tweek comes undone, Craig following shortly after, a guttural groan wrenched out from his chest.

Together they lie catching their breath, Craig’s head resting on Tweek’s chest, listening to the easing thud of his heart. He feels heavy and good and satisfied, like he’s scratched three years’ worth of itches. Once feeling begins to seep back into weary limbs, he tiredly lifts his head, hoping not to see any signs of regret in Tweek’s expression, hoping so much that this is some kind of breakthrough, a barrier gone down.

His eyes widen at the sight that does greet him.

A tangle of mute green leaves haphazardly wound together, out-of-control, wild like ivy, three feet taller than they had been before their impulsive romp. Amongst the tangle lie Tweek’s outstretched arms, soft red stems wound like elven jewellery around his fingers, wrists and arms.

“Tweek,” Craig whispers, carefully lifting to his arms, wondering if he’s snapped or if they’re both about to be devoured by the Triffid. “Tweek, what the fuck is that...?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooo things are slowly going to be revealed I guess! Thanks to mareeps for your help as always! 
> 
> Talk to me on tumblr! :) Flynntervention

It had been a long time since Tweek had worked in the shop, but every lesson spoken to him by Richard Tweak in that sickeningly sweet, patronising tone he liked to use had squirreled its way into Tweek’s over-stuffed cerebellum.

As though he’d never been away from the place, Tweek shakily punches in the code - 1-9-8-4 - and heaves open the heavy steel door, wincing when it closes behind him with a shuddering clang. The security lock beeps back into action. Tweek rolls his eyes at it, wondering who is more paranoid out of him and his parents.

Definitely him.

The room is as cold as he remembers it being. It soothes the flush in his cheeks, now from the exertion of sprinting a mile from home instead of the embarrassment of what he’d got up to with Craig whilst his parents were here waiting for him - and what transpired after.

Quickly he has to push the event aside. Now is not the time to process it. Besides, it won’t matter when Craig goes to the police or the CIA or the FBI to tell them there’s a Monster in South Park and he needs taking out and there’ll be helicopters and snipers and hoards of armed officers with--

Tweek clenches his fists, swallowing some of his noisy anxiety. Craig wouldn’t do that. Craig wouldn’t do that.

Tweek’s apron still hangs in the same place, on the centre hook beside the door leading to the shop. Stocks of coffee are neatly stacked by blend, flavour, variety, open bags clipped shut with dark grey scoops hanging from the rings. On the far side of the room there’s a whiteboard; on it is a Profit and Loss table Tweek has the misfortune of understanding. The shop is doing well - better than ever, in fact.

He figures that’s a lot to do with the new side business they have going these days...

Little has changed, at least.

Tweek pokes around the bags and boxes, curious to know where they keep the Other Stuff. In the coffee? Wouldn’t be the first time. In the ceiling, hidden above the foam tiles? Too susceptible to rats and bugs. Or maybe in plain sight, out on the shop front in decorative jars. “Oh that,” Richard would say when a curious customer asks, a wide, falsely benign smile on his face. “That’s just some potpourri.”

“Tweek!”

Tweek yelps, swiveling on a heel to face his father looming in the doorway. Richard unhooks Tweek’s apron and tosses it over, Tweek fumbling with it before looping it over his head and loosely tying it in the centre of his back. Tweak Bros. is emblazoned in gold on the front. “Where have you been, son? The rush is coming in! Let’s go!”

It was only last night the Conversation had happened. “You’ve got too much free time to let your thoughts get away with you, son,” Richard had begun as they’d sat down for dinner - lamb hot pot, despite Tweek’s fervent protests that he’s vegetarian. They’ve never listened.

Pushing the meat aside, Tweek mumbles, “I like my free time, dad.”

“Well, son, that’s the slippery slope to getting lazy, isn’t it?” Richard answers, poking his knife in his direction. “You don’t want to be a lazy son, do you, Tweek? You don’t want to disappoint your old mom and dad, do you?”

“No…”

“I didn’t think so. You’ll be thanking us when you’re older and you have a solid work ethic!” Richard continues. Tweek watches him swipe gravy onto a chunk of lamb, waves of bile rolling in his stomach. “I think you know where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

“I guess so...” Tweek answers miserably.

“Think about everything your mother and I do for you, Tweek,” Richard says sternly. “All this around us. You have everything you need, don’t you? You don’t want for a single thing, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t look so down,” Richard says. He lays his knife down and reaches to tuck a curl behind Tweek’s ear. “If you do this for me, maybe I’ll think about letting you have a phone. How does that sound?”

“Okay, sir. Thank you.”

Some of the worst hours of Tweek’s life have been spent in this damn coffee shop. The work is back-breaking, the customers obnoxious and loud, the hours long. He barely had time to do his homework, play games, see his boyfriend…

The latter at least is no longer a problem.

The memory of their earlier encounter rushes back. It rushes Tweek onto the shop floor, rushes him to the familiar position at the counter, to distraction. Steeling himself to get back into the swing of it, he sets his shoulders, stretching an alien smile across his face to greet his next customers.

There stands Clyde Donovan in his familiar baseball jacket, looking as equally surprised to see him as Tweek is to see Clyde. “You work here now,” he says dumbly, eyes sweeping over him. Clyde has certainly filled out of the years, no doubt due to football or some other jock sport Tweek hates.

“Welcome to Tweak Brothers, c-can I take your order?” Tweek says automatically, robotic, the many hours of memorised scripts still there at the ready.

“Uh, Earth to Tweek?” Clyde says, doing that irritating thing people do,waving his hand far too close to his face as if Tweek is standing there with his eyes closed. “You gonna’ say “hello” to your old friend Clyde?”

“Hi,” Tweek says, huffing. “Can I take your order?”

Clyde leans on crossed arms on the counter. “Are you supposed to be out in the open when you’re not at school? Couldn’t you like, have a meltdown or whatever?” he says. Tweek wants to punch his stupid smug smile right off his stupid face, but his dad has already warned him about getting into fights and he doesn’t need another lecture about how poor a show it was to come home sporting bruises, how bad it made him and Helen look as parents.

“I have other customers waiting,” Tweek answers, gesturing to the queue forming. “Would you like to order something?”

“Mocha to go,” Clyde says. Tweek scribbles it down and passes it to his colleague, some spotty sixteen year old who looks like he’d rather be dead than here. Tweek returns the sentiment. Though he has to admit the kid makes a mean mocha.

“Can I get you anything else?”

“Actually yeah,” Clyde says, standing. He gives Tweek a look: revulsion? Tweek almost takes a step back in surprise, instead resets his stance and straightens his back, waiting for Clyde to continue. But what he says next immediately slays the facade.

“Stay away from Craig. Or else.”

“Excuse me?” Tweek balks, fists clenching.

“Stay. Away. From. Craig.”

“Tell him to stay away from me, man!” Tweek shrieks, catching the attention of Richard who immediately abandons the window he’s so diligently cleaning and makes his way to the counter, dad-mode activated, assessing the situation as he stands close behind his son. Too close. He rests a long-fingered hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Is there a problem here?” he remarks, fixing that unsettling, alarming gaze on Clyde. It’s the look of a man with secrets, secrets no one wants to find out about lest they end up rolled in an old tarp way out in the mountains.

Clyde stuffs his hands in his pockets and shakes his head, shivering as though an icy finger has just crawled along his spine. For once Tweek is grateful for his dad’s intervention.

“No problem here, sir,” Clyde mutters, ducking his head. The spotty teenager calls “Mocha for Clyde!” and Clyde quickly slinks down the counter to pluck it from the boy’s fingers, casting a hasty glance Richard’s way. Still predatorily stood behind his son, Richard’s eyes watch Clyde as he makes a swift exit.

\--

“Is he depressed? First he’s gay, now he’s depressed, what next?”

“Honey, he’s had his heart broken.”

“Maybe we should go over there again, try and find out what the heck is going on.”

“We’ve already tried three times… He’s their son, they decide.”

“Well it’s all damn fishy if you ask me, pulling a kid out of school like that without a word and stopping him from seeing his friends. His boyfriend!”

Craig is sitting at the peak of the stairs, arms dangling listlessly between the spindles. His face is aching, tear tracks cold against his cheeks. Laura and Thomas are in the living room, whispering more loudly than they think. It’s the first time in days Craig has come out of his room to do something other than piss or shower, but he’d faltered when he’d caught the hurried, worried whispers of his parents, sinking onto the top step to listen.

They’d been trying to coax him out of his room for days, to at least eat more than a mouthful of food. But any time Craig so much as gets a sniff, his stomach tumbles and that cold, sticky sensation seeps back into him, pushing hot tears to the corners of his eyes.

His phone is clutched in his right hand. Extracting his limbs from between the spindles he sits cross-legged and opens his home screen, navigating to his Tweek text inbox, scrolling sadly through message after unanswered message.

[What the hel, dude! Answer your phone!]

Read

 

[ugh are you in a mood again?]

Read

 

[Fine BE in a mood wit me!!!]

Read

 

[Tweek come on.. :( ]

Read

 

[Night babe]

Read

 

[youre not in school are you sick?]

Read

 

[youre worrying me now dude, where are you?]

Read

 

[No one answered at your house have you gone away or smth?]

Read

 

[you shouldnt keep missing school you know]

Read

 

[i got all your homework]

Read

 

[Youve been pulled out of school!? Answer your phone!]

Read

 

[i dont know whats goin on did i do sthg?]

Read

 

[im sorry if i did something’s ing]

Read

 

[Your parents won’t let me see you, wtf?]

Read

 

[Babe plz plz plz text me back plz]

Read

 

[i rly miss you x]

Read

 

[i love you x]

Read

 

[Stop texting me]

Read

\--

Everytime Craig thinks about his last encounter with Tweek, his cheeks feel hot and his belly even hotter. And it isn’t every so often. It’s near constant, reliving their frantic, messy, spontaneous tryst over and over and over like he has a single eye peering inside one of those old movie zoetropes from the early twentieth century.

He can’t get it off his mind. Since yesterday he’s jacked off five times: bed, shower, bed again, bathroom and in the living room into a tissue when his parents had gone to see Patricia’s dance recital.

Craig is certain he’s never seen Tweek move that fast. One second they’re staring wildly at one another, heaving for breath, and the next? The next the room is empty but for Craig and a shifting cluster of leaves and stems that to Craig felt aware, judgemental, scorned and sullied.

Dutifully he’d picked up every toppled pot and neatly rearranged them, in his palms scooping up what soil he could. After that he’d climbed out from where he’d come, replacing the window and carefully shimmying across the tiles to spring the short distance to the tree beside the house.

From there he’d sauntered home, stuck floating between the satisfaction of getting off with the help of another human being and the sheer confusion of what had transpired after.

So yes, every time he thinks about it, it makes him horny. But then terror is stalking just beyond his periphery.

What the fuck had happened?

For his efforts, Craig had pinched one of the plants now hidden away in his closet. He figures he can keep it alive long enough to make use of it (if his nosy sister doesn’t find it first and tell on him, at least - or demand he share).

When he hears the sound of the doorbell, he flips his laptop shut (he’s not paying attention to the show he’s been playing on Netflix) and sets it down on his desk. Sighing, he sits up from his prone position on his pristinely made bed and swings his feet to the floor. Time to be sociable, he figures, despite feeling like being anything but and instead curling up in bed with his new snippet of wank material.

He wipes his sweaty palms on weathered, navy jeans. Jesus, was he ever horny.

But there was still the matter of how the hell those plants had ended up that way. And that matter was a definitive boner killer.

Maybe he just hadn’t noticed there were some bigger plants. Maybe Tweek had gripped onto them when they were… and they’d got tangled and… no, but…

Did he imagine it? Maybe he just fell asleep and dreamt it. That’d make sense. Yeah, that made total sense. They’d both drifted off in the aftermath and he’d got confused when he woke up surrounded by cannabis plants. Anyone would be a little confused about that. Right? Right.

“Craig!”

Clyde bursts into his room - without knocking, again - immediately heading over to throw his arms around him in the most ridiculously strong bear hug that sends Craig toppling backwards, Clyde in tow.

“Dude, get off!” Craig cries, shrugging out of his grip and sitting up as Token and Jimmy follow Clyde inside. Undeterred, Clyde sinks down on the bed beside him, stupidly close, close enough their thighs are touching. When he winds an arm around Craig’s, Craig hops to his feet, putting some distance back between them. “What’s up with you?”

Clyde pouts. “You let me hug you yesterday!”

Token barks out a laugh, taking a seat at Craig’s desk and swiveling the chair to face them. “He what?”

“Yeah, guys!” Clyde says, chest puffed. “I got to hug Craig Tucker! Well, more like cuddle~”

“Clyde,” Craig warns, gaze fierce. He rubs his forehead with his sleeve, cheeks dusted pink.

“W-w-what was the o-ocassion?” Jimmy enquires curiously, eyebrow arched. He leans forwards on his crutches as though Clyde is about to divulge a great secret, his eyes darting between him and Craig.

“Craig spilled his guts to me about Freaky and--”

“Clyde.”

“--Craig started crying and I’m totally in touch with my feminine side and completely comfortable with my sexuality so I have no problem hugging my best friend.”

“For fucks sake, Clyde!”

Token tilts his head. “Crying? About what?”

“Nothing,” Craig insists, embarrassed. He’d been embarrassed at the time, too. Craig Tucker only ever cries in front of his mother, never anyone else. Ever. Least of all Clyde-fucking-Donovan who has the biggest mouth in all of South Park. “Clyde is exaggerating again.”

“Dude, no I’m not.You don’t gotta be ashamed.”

“I’m not.”

Token ignores their bickering, interrupting with, “You’ve been that upset about it? Why didn’t you talk to us?”

Craig throws his arms up, shrugging at the same time. “Cause it’s just...it’s embarrassing! And I know how I seem like a fucking lost lamb or whatever and it’s just...it’s not fun for me, you know!?”

“C-can’t help who you fall in love with,” Jimmy supplies sympathetically.

“Or who you never fall out of love with,” Token adds.

“Anyway,” Clyde says, casually leaning back on his hands. “I just wanted you to know he won’t be bothering you again.”

Craig turns to look at him, immediately suspicious. “What did you do?”

Clyde looks awfully pleased with himself. “I told him to stay away from you.”

“You did what?” Craig deadpans.

Clyde falters, sitting up again and resting his hands in his lap, his shoulders slightly hunched. More quietly he repeats “...told him to stay away from you or else?”

“Are you kidding me!?” Craig growls.

“I thought it was what you needed! You’ve been a total mess for the last few months!”

Token shakes his head, rolling his eyes. “Clyde, you’re a fucking dumbass,” he says. “What did Tweek say?”

Craig is attentive then. He wants to know, too, desperately. “He um,” Clyde begins, now fiddling with the sheets, plucking nervously at invisible threads. When Craig snaps at him to spit it out he yelps and all at once babbles, “he said you need to stay away from him!”

Craig near growls. “Where did you see him?” he demands, the step he takes closer to Clyde making Clyde shrink back like a cornered animal.

“H-he’s working at the shop again!”

Craig doesn’t need to be told twice.

\--

The door has been locked for about an hour. Tweek’s phone and laptop had been taken off him, so he isn’t entirely certain, but it seems about that long.

He’d forgotten how boring life was without technology. Tweek keeps himself occupied with his most recent model (a Gundam), surprisingly steady hands gluing together intricate little pieces of metal and plastic.

It’s not the first time his parents have locked him in his room. It probably won’t be the last. He wonders how much trouble he’s in for keeping this a secret, if he’s in trouble at all. His parents hadn’t shouted or screamed; they’d merely calmly told him to go up to his room so they could have a “discussion about what to do next.”

Weird. But Tweek likes his own company, so being locked in his room isn’t so bad. It’s peaceful and calming, his own space to do as he pleases. And with the many locks installed by his dad, it’s completely safe and secure.

An errant leaf from the Peace Lily - Spathyfillum, Tweek thought - on his desk tickles the back of his hand. Placing down his glue gun, Tweek smiles, pulling the sunset orange pot closer until it’s encircled in his arms.

“You’re growing well, huh?” he says, smoothing a couple of silky green leaves between his fingers, bouncing a couple of others. “You’ll need a bigger pot, soon.”

Reaching for the jug of water beside him, Tweek tips a little into the soil. “You’ve always been my favourite to be honest. Even Craig says you’re pretty.”

Tweek smiles dopily when he thinks about Craig, wondering what he’ll think when he tells him about all this. What he’ll say. Will he freak out? No, Craig never freaks out. He’ll probably shrug and say, “whatever, babe” and kiss him and tell him absolutely everything would be absolutely fine. Craig knows just how to make him feel better.

That silly, giddy feeling he gets when he thinks about, when he sees Craig, is back again. A kind of squirming, warm sensation that starts in his belly and spreads to his head and toes. Tweek knows he’s going to say it soon. He’s going to say “I love you”.

A ridiculous giggle erupts out of Tweek’s mouth.

At the same moment a little white lily pops into existence.

\---


	7. Risk

Tweek doesn’t kid himself; he’s emotional, sensitive, attuned. He feels the rippling grieving, the explosion of happiness, the cloying worry of others almost as much as he feels his own. Not just people. Animals, insects, every sentient thing. Richard says he’s volatile and uncontrollable - though Tweek would argue he does a pretty good job of “controlling” him with that placid, calm speech, his quick and eerie touch, manipulating him into wondering if he’s just, in fact, crazy. 

Is he though?

Tweek thumps a fist against his head. Once more for good measure. He has to stop thinking that way. Has to.

_ My feelings are valid, my feelings are valid, my feelings are valid. _

The same mantra has beaten through his head more times than Tweek cares to remember, and yet the sentiment just never seems to ring true. So many times he’s had his mental stability questioned, his decisions, his reactions, his ability to find clarity when honestly.  _ Honestly _ . They’re the ones who can’t see clearly. If only they knew the  _ truth _ .

Idly Tweek tests his bedroom window and is surprised to discover it isn’t locked. Perhaps his dad had felt generous after his first shift in the shop (unlikely). A phone is yet to materialise, and Tweek expects it never will. Richard never was a fan of letting Tweek interact too much with the outside world “for his own safety”. 

He scoffs. The outside isn’t what he needs keeping safe from. 

For the thrill of it, Tweek swings the window open, closing his eyes to the rush of crisp, cold air. The potent foliage behind hums its protest but Tweek simply takes in the moment, feeling the very faintest wisp of freedom, of what it would be like to just  _ Be _ .

Looking down at the perfectly aligned, grey-green roof tiles, Tweek remembers nights spent with Craig, a duvet thick and heavy but comforting draped across them like a big dumb dog who doesn’t know his own size. Craig would reach up, connecting stars with his index finger and explaining the story behind every constellation he knew. Some nights he’d rush over, cheeks hot and pink from sprinting and elation, just to show Tweek a brand new star, a planet, a meteor shower about to begin. Other days, when the sky was iodine orange and swathed in cloud, they’d shyly kiss, carefully and tentatively explore. 

His bedroom door is locked. Usually that means his parents have gone to sleep already. Slipping from the sill, Tweek pads to the door and presses his ear to the cool, oak wood. No sounds; voices, television, radio. Nothing.

Looking back towards the window, Tweek has already decided models and books aren’t going to be his entertainment tonight.

\--

Craig hadn’t paid a visit to Tweek Bros. since Tweek disappeared. Naturally it had changed over the years, refurbishment firmly dragging it into the twenty-first century. Gone was the tacky mountain town chestnut panels and floors, replaced by glossy square cream tiles. The counter too was new, as was the polished steel industrial coffee maker behind it, hissing like a furious cat. Booths had been replaced with small and round black tables, pairs of multi-coloured, mismatched chairs accompanying them.

The biggest change was the enormous glass front that made the place look like a giant fishbowl.

Honestly, Craig hated it: corporate and false. But more than that, he hated that Tweek wasn’t there.

Exhaustion was already sneaking into his bones.

Craig hadn’t returned to his friends. Mostly he figured eventually he was going to clock Clyde in the eye, and then Clyde would cry, Token would yell at him and Jimmy would rip the piss. He definitely did not fancy dealing with that mess.

So instead, he passed the time twatting around in arcades, listlessly roaming stores, managed to scrounge up enough dollar to buy a movie ticket. And when he’d returned to the often twisted reality that existed beyond, feeling even more dejected than he did before, night had settled into the crevices of South Park. 

Not ready to go home to questions and prods and worrying, he’d headed away from bustling neighbourhoods, the hum of townspeople quietening the nearer Craig got to where he now stands. 

Stark Pond never changes, Craig thinks. Consistently the same from the careful lap of the water to the creaking trees, the tatty old peeling bench to… 

Pausing in front of an ancient looking blue spruce, he lifts his hand to trace what’s engraved there: Craig x Tweek enveloped by a crudely etched heart. A pang of longing for what once was squeezes his insides, almost a push, a push to  _ do _ something about it already. 

Hand falling, Craig settles himself on the old bench, sinking sideways. Absently he feels his phone vibrating in his back pocket, but he doesn’t have the energy to retrieve it. What’s the use? It won’t be someone he wants to hear from. 

Every inch of him hurts; the same hurt from three years prior. Loss, confusion, frustration. Desperation. Will he need to face it again, overcome it for a second time? Is he capable?

“I can’t,” he murmurs to no one. 

“Oh Jesus, who’s there!?”

Craig shoots upright, looking over his shoulder just as Tweek stumbles around some foliage, arms raised above his head as though he’s surrounded by nettles. And a smile as bright as the sun stretches straight from ear-to-ear the moment Craig realises it’s him.

“It’s just me!” he cries, quickly on his feet to stride over to him, helping him rebalance when he’s finally on flat ground. “It’s Craig!”

Tweek presses his hand to his sternum. “You n-nearly gave me a heart attack you jerk!” he replies, repeatedly patting his chest as if that will help to calm his pounding heart. He sways from one foot to the other. Craig wonders if that’s another nervous habit he’s picked up over the years.

“Sorry,” Craig chuckles, shoving his hands into his pockets lest they end up all over him instead. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Obviously!” Craig doesn’t care how terse he’s being. Tweek is here, with him. He can punch him in the dick for all he cares. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Why are you lurking around in the dark?”

“Why are  _ you _ ?” Craig returns. He wets his lips slowly and doesn’t miss the curt glance fired towards them. Feeling a hot, ticklish sensation in the depths of his belly, Craig’s mind rewinds to the day before as he takes Tweek in, dishevelled, still short, and still so freaking adorable. “Dude, are you wearing pyjamas?”

“Yes what of it!?” Tweek squawks, pulling his heavy, oversized black military coat more tightly around himself to hide the fact. The coat buttons are gold and engraved with “TT”. “I’ve got shoes on!”

“Well that makes it make  _ so  _ much more sense,” Craig laughs, releasing a hand to nudge his shoulder. 

“It was a split second decision, I didn’t have time to change,” Tweek says, pouting as he looks at his feet. 

“What was a split second decision?”

“To escape. Ngh, not escape. Going out. Without them knowing. My parents. I didn’t tell them.”

A small frown darkens Craig’s brow. “You couldn’t use the front door?”

“Duh, everything is locked and alarmed!” Tweek says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Dad usually locks my window too, but I guess he forgot today and they’d both gone to sleep. Or uh...maybe he didn’t expect me to go anywhere.” 

He chuckles nervously, fiddling with his sleeve to check the time. It’s just after ten. “M-maybe I should go back…”

“No!” Craig yelps, frown melting to nothing. A flush colours his cheeks. “No I...please stay. Just for a bit?”

Only for a moment Tweek seems unsure, then sighs and throws his arms up, sinking to the bench. “I guess now I’m here,” he says, fingers gripping the front slat. Craig sits beside him, close enough their thighs are touching, and Tweek snatches his hands back to drop them onto his knees. 

Craig swears he presses closer. 

Despite a boiling pot of questions, Craig doesn’t mind the silence that settles. Both of them have their eyes skyward, taking in the peace, the tranquility of the music of night. This place holds so many memories, so many  _ good _ memories Craig can’t bring himself to be too concerned about chit-chat. He’s certain Tweek must feel the same. And yet…

“So,” Tweek starts, now examining his palms like he’s searching them for the right words. Clearing his throat, he continues, “about yesterday.”

“That was  _ boss _ ,” Craig interrupts, grinning over at him. His eyes widen at his own confession, heat rushing down his neck like hot water poured over his head. “I-I mean...you know, it...it was..”

“It was nice,” Tweek finishes, meeting his gaze. It’s sharp and electric, a surprise and a challenge.

“Just nice?” Craig answers, voice a low rumble. Swinging an arm over the back of the bench he lightly brushes Tweek’s shoulder, a careful, tentative question in the gesture. Though the freckles across his nose now have a backdrop of pink, Tweek licks his lips and shuffles closer, a hand smoothing along the expanse of Craig’s thigh and pausing at the juncture of his hip. 

Swallowing, Craig slides his own hand over it to entwine their fingers, blood swiftly rushing south. “Should...should we be doing this?” he asks uncertainly, faltering (and mentally cursing himself for risking the opportunity to make out with someone, with  _ Tweek) _ , twice in twenty-four hours. 

Maybe it isn’t something Craig had expected so suddenly, but he isn’t complaining.  

“I haven’t been close to anyone but my parents for years,” Tweek answers breathily, suddenly close enough Craig can feel the heat of his words. Gently Tweek squeezes his hand. “I need to be close to someone, just for a while.”

Craig’s heart feels like it’s launched into his throat. Someone.  _ Someone.  _ Anyone. Anyone will do. He doesn’t care about Craig anymore. Tweek just wants touch, just wants to be beside another human willing to give him it. And God is Craig willing.

The distance has already closed, their kisses noisy and eager. But if Tweek wants touch, Craig won’t deny him. Clumsily unbuttoning Tweek’s coat he pushes a hand inside, and then under Tweek’s loose pyjama shirt to find warm, inviting skin Craig hasn’t felt for years. In the dark he maps the expanse, a broader chest and firmer abdomen still with a pinch of fat below Tweek’s belly. 

Tweek gasps into his mouth, casting a leg across Craig’s thighs and pressing flush against his side, half hard dick squished to Craig’s bony hip. 

“Ngh, you’re still just corners,” Tweek complains, adjusting himself accordingly so his sensitive dick isn’t crushed. 

“And you’re still marshmallowy in the right places,” Craig answers, free hand cupping a handful of his ass. Tweek moans, ducking his head to press feverishly hot kisses over Craig’s throat. 

When his hand finds the crotch of Tweek’s pyjamas, Tweek keens, pressing into the large hot palm teasingly massaging him. Encouragingly he covers it with his other hand, surprised and pleased, urging Craig to free him.

He does so, circling him firmly and gliding up and down and up and down. Their mouths find one another again, their kisses messier, more frantic. “You’re already wet,” Craig whispers, slicking his thumb over the head of Tweek’s cock. The words aren’t unfamiliar but it’s been so long since Craig has uttered anything like it that it feels like an incoherent dream pasting together snippets of a desperately wanted past. 

Tweek’s answer is a low growl, his fingers finding Craig’s sweater and gripping the collar, hips bucking wantonly. “Don’t tease me,” he demands, and Craig ceases to do so, hand closing around him again and pumping him.

“W-won’t take long,” Tweek says, breath hitched, and he’s right. Not a minute later he explodes over Craig’s hand, his pyjama shirt and trousers spattered with spurt after spurt of sticky cum. 

“Jesus Christ, dude,” Craig says, his voice still thrumming with arousal and heat. “Fuck.”

Tweek sags in the lull. Panting and wiping himself off, Tweek hurriedly tidies himself away and buttons himself back up. Craig thinks he looks relieved in a lot of ways, some of the stress wrinkles eased from his brow, a glow to his cheeks. It takes a few moments for him to fall from the high, head lolling to tiredly rest against Craig’s shoulder. 

Craig resists the urge to pout about the fact Tweek didn’t return the favour. 

“Thanks…” he mumbles, nuzzling. Craig’s heart squeezes painfully again. Was it just a favour he’d just done him?

The grass at their feet is tickling his bare ankles. It makes him feel twitchy and restless and irritated. 

“Mmm, so glad we didn’t get caught yesterday. I would have been in so, so, so much shit, and I know I completely flipped and bolted but you know like, I didn’t know what to say and I didn’t think you’d believe me and--”

“Believe what?” Craig interrupts. Jostling Tweek from his shoulder - spitefully - he shimmies to the side with one leg bent atop the bench. Casting a confused look his way, Tweek fiddles with his hands, twisting a white gold ring around his middle finger. Brow knitted, the relief in his face, in his voice, has gone again.

“About the plants.”

Craig blinks. “The plants.”

“Helping them grow. I’ve been able to do it for years.”

Craig stares. It was real. The whole thing had been real. He didn’t imagine it, didn’t dream it. Tweek had made the fucking plants  _ grow _ .

“What the  _ fuck _ !?” Craig shouts, jumping to his feet. Tweek flinches. “What the actual fuck!?”

He paces five times and heavily sits back down again, the bench protesting beneath him. “What the fuck.”

“Okay, “what the fuck”, I get it…” Tweek grumbles. “I know it’s hard to believe. And believe me I’ve been shitting myself about this since yesterday.”

“Are you for real on this?” Craig demands, taking up the same position again. Tweek ever so slightly leans away. “You’re telling me you have some magical fucking fairy ability to make plants grow.”

“Trees too, though that’s super hard ‘cause they’re so old. They say it hurts.”

“You talk to them.”

“Plants can’t speak  _ English _ , Craig.”

“Oh  _ excuse me _ for not knowing the ins and outs of fucking plant language!”

“Will you stop swearing about them, they’re getting pissed at you.”

Nervously Craig casts a look around the pond, trees and shrubbery suddenly appearing much more intimidating in the dark. He shrinks a little, lowering his voice. “Tweek, how is this even possible? You better not be fucking with me, I swear to god—”

“I’m not fucking with you!”

“You did always tell crazy stories!”

“This isn’t a crazy story,” Tweek begins, clearing his throat again. “And there's something else I need to tell you.”   
  
  



	8. Beg

Craig can tell Tweek has been crying, but there are times he doesn’t know how to ask what’s wrong without making whatever the problem is worse. Out of frustration towards his own lack of understanding, sometimes he’s guilty of manhandling Tweek’s emotions instead of coaxing and comforting. So sometimes he simply says nothing and hopes Tweek will eventually let it all tumble from his lips.

Craig is stood at the open front door where outside torrential rain soaks into the earth. The weather reflects the mood - pathetic fallacy, Craig recalls from eighth grade English class last year - but regardless thinks Tweek looks particularly beautiful tonight; waifish, skin pale and almost pearlescent under the pallid light of the moon. 

With pinched fingers Tweek is stretching his hood forward to keep the rain out of his eyes, head tilted up so he can see still. 

Old tears make his eyes dark and glassy; ethereal. He looks wild, wilder than ever, like something Craig shouldn’t touch in case he evaporates into the air right in front of him. 

Craig can’t help but stare.

“C-can I come in?” Tweek stutters and for once he looks cold, despite the brand new scarlet raincoat and matching wellies he’s sporting. Normally he doesn’t ask; normally he bustles his way inside, mumbling and muttering about this and that until Craig kisses him and they end up on their backs on the couch or on Craig’s bed, kissing until breathless, until Tweek has settled back down on solid ground.

This time Craig frowns but nods, stepping aside. Out of habit Tweek toes off his shoes and sets them neatly on the rack by the door whilst Craig closes and bolts it, warily casting a look out the window.  

“You’re dripping everywhere,” Craig says, a statement, not an admonishment. Helping Tweek free of his coat, Craig shakes it off in the kitchen and then hangs it under the stairs. Readying tea, he returns to find the hallway is empty. Assuming Tweek has made himself comfortable upstairs, Craig heads up, finding his boyfriend curled beneath his comforter. It brings a small smile to Craig’s lips.  

“Here, drink this to get warm,” he insists, settling the drink on his bedside table. Popping his head out, Tweek extends his arm to grasp the handle, rising to lean on his elbow so he can blow and sip. Craig drops himself backwards onto his desk chair, froggishly rolling it to the side of the bed and leaning over the back. “So how come you—”

“Do you ever wonder if you’re adopted?”

Craig cocks his head, surprised by the question. “Well…I mean, I guess I have,” he answers thoughtfully. “I’m not blond or ginger and Trish is brunette, but like, my grandad had black hair so it’s not that weird. Plus, I’m kinda just like my mom.”

Ordinarily Tweek would make some kind of sassy remark to a comment like that.

“Babe…?” Craig prompts patiently. “Is…uh…do you…wanna talk about whatever’s…uh…you know…”

“I’m not normal.”

“Well we already knew that,” Craig says cheerfully, but it only makes Tweek shrink further into himself.

“I get farther from normal every day, dad says.”

Craig scoffs at that. “Of course he does, which is ironic coming from him.”

“He’s right though. Now he wants to put me on pills.”

“Pills? What kind of pills?”

“All sorts. To “calm me down”,” Tweek says morosely. He sets his tea back down and retreats under the covers.

“Well you don’t have to take them. He can’t make you.”

“He’ll find a way. He always does. He always  _ gets in my head _ .” Tweek thumps his forehead repeatedly until Craig reaches for his hand and winds their fingers together. “I don’t wanna be one of  _ those _ kids! I just wanna be normal!”

Craig feels a lurch of sympathy and gets to his feet so he can lie down beside the lump in his bed. Sliding his arms around him best he can, he nuzzles and kisses his soft mop of hair. It smells clean, like the expensive shampoo Craig has seen in the Tweak’s many bathrooms. “If you were normal, I’d be so bored,” he says quietly, honestly. “And I don’t care how not normal you get, because you’re fun and spontaneous and you have the best ideas and you’re basically all the stuff I’m not and I like it that way.”

Craig punctuates his point with a gentle squeeze, hoping he’s saying the right thing, just this once. “So if you ever think about wanting to be normal, remember that.”

Though he can’t see, he’s fairly sure Tweek is smiling, just a little.

“Thank you, Craig. I’ll remember.”

\---

Crushed doesn’t fully encompass how Craig is feeling; it’s more like how it would feel to be steamrolled back into the primordial soup all things are made up of before evaporating into the sky to rain across the expanse of planet Earth. It’s almost romantic, Craig thinks, before squashing that thought and anything with any vague notions of romance or love and other such homewreckers.

Honestly, his focus should really have been on Tweek’s double-whammy bombshell, but all Craig can think about is how Tweek looked post-orgasm in his comfortable little bliss-bubble, pink lips damp, pinker cheeks glowing with utter euphoria. And it doesn’t help that Tweek’s second admission he finds sort of hot in a creepy, fifteen year old boy on a furry porn site kind of way. God dammit.

Craig’s dick twitches treacherously in his pants. Inwardly he scolds it, glaring at his nethers as if they have eyes of their own.

“Dude,” Clyde says beside him, ham and cheese sandwich halfway to his mouth. “Why the fuck are you staring at your crotch like that?”

Though he doesn’t answer, Craig’s head snaps up. But then his gaze slides easily to the jittery blond kid he’s had the misfortune of fantasising about all morning who is sitting alone, sprawled casually on his back on the grass reading a book held aloft over his head and seeming surprisingly at ease. Craig wonders if that’s because of what happened, because of the burden Tweek had shared with him over the weekend. For a moment he grasps the idea tight in his head, fuelling the fire telling him he  _ means something _ .

Despite himself, despite the sense that Craig is only filling an empty space in Tweek’s odd little existence, Craig had been ecstatic when Tweek said “hello” to him in the hallway on their way to home room. He’d had to reign in his desire to obnoxiously wave and holler a greeting back, instead opting for a cool and collected “hey” and sliding by before turning to follow Tweek’s ass with his eyes down the hall.

 

Jimmy had ribbed him for it all morning.

Craig’s leg is bouncing and in his lap he’s wringing his hands. “Have you got the shits or something?” Clyde says around a mouthful of his sandwich, ignoring Token’s protesting “dude”. When he follows Craig’s gaze he clucks his tongue, rolling his eyes, tugging crusts away to pile them on his plate. “Do you know how creepy you look right now? You’ve gotta get over this.”

“Clyde, don’t start again. You already did enough damage the other day,” Token sighs.

“O-our boy is just infa-- infa-- besotted,” Jimmy adds, spearing a piece of rolled ham and folding it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing. He jabs his fork at Clyde. “Give him a b-b-break.”

“Craig isn’t the issue here,” Clyde continues, picking up the second half of his lunch. “Look I’m sure that maybe Tweek doesn’t mean any harm or anything but he’s leading Craig on and it’s gotta stop.”

Craig sighs, figuring Clyde isn’t all that wrong. Tweek had been happy enough to bump uglies in his room, and happy enough to let Craig handle his dick (what ever happened to quid pro quo anyway?), but this limbo they seem to be hammocking in is driving him crazy. He wants to go over there, wants to snatch that book from Tweek’s hands and demand some answers, demand exactly what he thinks he’s doing with Craig’s heart.

Yet there he continues to sit and fidget and pine. Even when Kenny rocks up beside him, without invitation and in one swift movement sinks down at Tweek’s side and folds his legs. Craig sucks in a breath, leaning forward as if he might hear their conversation, feeling a defensive coil of jealousy deep down in his gut. Then fucking Kenny is leaning over and Tweek’s eyes move up to his face and perceptibly widen.

When he settles his book on his chest and smiles, Craig feels a tumultuous, violent wave of sickness rolling into his stomach.

“Craig,” Token says, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Come on, dude, it’s nothing.”

“Why’s Kenny talking to him?” Craig growls, fists clenching and releasing. “What the hell have they got to talk about, they’re not friends.”

“They might be,” Clyde supplies, flinching when Craig rounds on him.

“ _ What _ ?”

Taken aback, Clyde shrugs, idly dusting crumbs from his lap and scrunching up the leftover tinfoil. “Well they might. You’re not with Tweek every second of the day or for like many seconds at all, even.”

Craig trains his eyes back on the pair of them. Tweek is now sitting up, his back to them whilst Kenny animatedly chats. The snide fucker has even taken his hood down like he’s attempting to emulate some smooth-ass Lothario, coaxing Tweek into his arms.

“Hate to say it but, C-C-Clyde is right,” Jimmy says, watching the two of them with interest.

Thinking back to what Tweek had said at the weekend, to needing to be close to someone, the sickness in his stomach rises. And the jealousy, making every limb feel hot and anxious. Irrationality grabs hold of him and then he’s out of his seat, ignoring the shouts of his friends to “not be so stupid”.

Stupid is all he can think of being, idiotic as he reaches and stands over the two of them, sneering. He doesn’t spare Kenny even a glance, looking squarely at Tweek. “Uh, so,” he begins snippily. Tweek owlishly blinks at him, clearly surprised by both his presence and his tone. He’s cradling the book against his chest like he’s got something to hide.  

“Since when are you two friends?” Craig growls, jabbing accusingly between them. He knows,  _ knows, _ how much he’s going to regret hurling caution to the wind and making it as painfully obvious as possible that he’s a big, possessive, jealous moron.

“What’s it to you?” Kenny interrupts, and when Craig turns to look at him he gets a dirty look up and down that makes the blood rush to his head.

But what  _ is _ it to him? Should it be anything at all? “I...” Craig begins, frantically rifling through reasons to explain why he has any right to be bothered about the idea of Tweek actually having any other friends or...anything more.

Were him and Craig even friends? Craig had thought they were finally getting somewhere but--

“I wasn’t talking to  _ you _ , Kenny,” he says finally, turning back to Tweek who, still, is stupefied.

“Dude, he lent a book to me,” Tweek answers softly. Craig notices his hands are trembling and wonders if it’s because of him, because of what Craig  _ knows _ (what he really should be more concerned about than he is). “Kenny saw me reading it and came over to talk to me about how I was finding it…”

“Oh yeah, what book?” Craig demands, holding his hand out. Tweek glances from it to the book and dutifully hands it over.

_ Coping Strategies for Special Teens _ by Dr L. Morrison.

Oh.

Craig feels heat rushing into his cheeks, hurtling down his neck. For a moment longer he clutches the book and then guiltily hands it back. “Well, okay,” he says, his desire for vilification sinking through his shoes into the floor, replaced with hot embarrassment and a desire to melt into the grass. “I guess that’s alright.”

“You “guess that’s alright”? What’s your problem, dude?” Kenny again, turning up the heat on Craig’s simmering temper. He drags in a sharp breath, fingers flexing at his sides. “I know a lot of shit’s been going on but like, calm down.”

“What do you know about anything? And don’t tell me to “calm down”, asshole!”

“Okay, first of all - woah,” Kenny says. “Secondly, you’re being all nuts about a friendly conversation.”

“Guys, can you both just--” Tweek tries.

“I’m not “all nuts” about anything!”

Kenny sighs noisily, rising to his feet and it pisses Craig off in a way he can’t fathom. “Look at what you’re doing right now,” he says, gently in fact, but the words send Craig into fight mode, his body stiffening in preparation for launch. He  _ wants  _ Kenny to start something. He wants to unleash some of this energy, this anger.

 

In his periphery he sees both Tweek standing and Clyde and Token rising from their seats to intercept.

“So why don’t ya’ just calm down and--”

Craig lurches forward, pleased to see Kenny take a surprised step back. It wouldn’t be the first time the guy had been on the other end of Craig’s fists (and vice versa), both their gangs known for their scrapiness. But Craig is surprised to find neither Clyde nor Token are holding him back, but instead it’s Tweek, heels digging into the ground and his arms firmly around his middle.

“Craig,  _ stop it _ ,” he says, and he’s so close Craig can feel his breath. He does as he’s told, weak to Tweek in so many ways it makes his head spin. Immediately he relaxes in his hold and, to Craig’s delight, Tweek doesn’t yet let go. Directing his attention to Kenny, Tweek says, “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Thanks for coming over.”

Kenny waves, smiling toothily as if the scuffle just now never happened. “Sure, Tweek. You know where to find me.”

It’s only once he’s out of range that Tweek slackens his hold and lets go, sweeping down to retrieve the book from the floor. Craig watches in silence as Tweek dusts it off and slips it into his backpack, feeling like a naughty school kid about to get ripped to shreds by his parents.

“What the fuck was that?” Tweek eventually says, heaving his backpack up onto his shoulder. He’s clutching the strap so tightly his knuckles are white.

“I just… you know, you’re like…” Craig starts, floundering. “You’re vulnerable and shit and I didn’t want him to--”

“I am  _ not _ vulnerable,” Tweek hisses. “You’re not the only person I’m allowed to ever talk to, Craig.”

 

“I know that, I just--”

 

“I’m allowed to have other friends, aren’t I? I’m just trying to catch up on my life.”

 

_ Weren’t we doing that together _ , Craig thinks. Jealousy overwhelms him again, spilling into his throat and out of his mouth. “So I guess you’re just blabbing all your secrets to Kenny as well then?” Craig snaps, stepping nearer. His voice lowers. “I bet he’s giving you handjobs at Stark Pond too then, right? If he’s such a good  _ friend _ .”

Craig knows it’s a low blow, but he can’t help himself. In that moment he wants to hurt him, wants Tweek to feel the same empty hurt he’s been carrying around for three long years.

Tweek’s cheeks turn pink. “You know what, Kenny is right. You’re acting nuts,” he says in a voice that betrays his expression. “And that’s something coming from me. We’re not...we’re not together anymore.”

Craig feels those words like an icepick to his heart. Despite the honest truth of it, surprised tears prick his eyes. It isn’t until then he’s really thought about it. They’d never had that conversation, never officially “broken up”. But what else was there to call it?

The venom in Craig’s words seeps out. “I know that, but…”

“You’re the one that’s been chasing me, Craig!” Tweek cries, voice cracking. Craig realises he’s barely stopped to really think about everything Tweek had admitted, how it had affected his life all this time, how he’d been locked away like some sort of freak and taken advantage of.

“Kenny knows what I told you but that’s because he found out on his own by accident! And he’s been  _ helping me _ to deal with it. Unlike you.”

Craig opens his mouth to answer, closing it again.

“I opened up to you and it made me so happy you didn’t care about any of that other shit, that you didn’t care about what I  _ am _ .”

“I don’t care! I mean, I do, but I  _ don’t _ .”

“I’m done talking about this. I have to go,” Tweek snaps, sliding his arm into his other strap and settling the backpack between his shoulders.  I’ve got work.”

And just like that, Tweek’s gone once again.

\---

“Please…. _ please _ .”

The great bows of an ancient oak keep Tweek nestled and safe, speckled leaves sheltering him from the rain. The oak hums a warming, Earthly lullaby, a sound and sensation like the consistent vibration of a booming bass Tweek can feel at his core, down to his soul. “Please let me come home…”

_ We can’t _ , they whisper, sorrowful and solemn, voices like the brush of leaves in wind. Tweek wishes he could be held by them.  _ We wish we could, but we don’t know how _ .

“Please…” Tweek repeats, nose burrowing into his knees, fisted hands tugging locks of messy hair. His sobs are lost amidst the rain. “I can’t take it here anymore. I can’t take it!”

_ You can, little one. You have to. _

\---

Often Craig wanders South Park in the hours leading up to midnight, contemplative. His own company he’s never minded much, revelled in it even. But tonight… tonight he’s lonely. Lonely and lost. And there’s no soul on Earth he thinks will understand the depth of his feelings.

So on a whim he’s come back, back to Stark’s Pond filled with so many memories as recent as only a few days prior, the place where Tweek had confessed he can  _ talk to plants, _ though he never described it that way. No, it wasn’t just that. It was a connection. A bond. Home. 

Craig skirts the pond’s perimeter, kicking stones and sticks, hands shoved in his pockets. And then he arrives at that tree, engraved with nostalgia, and there he sits, right in the snow.

“I’m sorry,” he begins. He swears there’s a lift in the wind, a rustle of leaves and a creak of branches.

“I’m sorry if...if you had to watch me jack off your um...is he your kid? I don’t know how this stuff works. I’m still trying to get my head around it all, to be honest. It’s hard, you know? It’s really fucking hard…”

“Don’t get me wrong, South Park is a fucked up place. I guess I just always thought Tweek was like..you know, a regular kid, like me. Regularish anyway… you know, with his nutty parents and the addiction thing. Other than that he’s just…”

“He was always so wild. Like he always had such crazy ideas about things. Since the first time I ever really spent time with him, I’ve always thought he’s just so fucking unique. Like he doesn’t belong here or something, or he’s from somewhere else. Not regular old here.”  

“And he’s tough! He’s this skinny thing and he’s so tough but like, not just physically but mentally. He’s had to overcome so much and… I haven’t appreciated that as much as I should, actually. He’s um...what’s the fucking word. Resilient. It’s incredible.”

“...I’ve missed him so much. Do you think he knows that? Maybe I’ve been a little crazy. I’m not always great with emotions and stuff.”

“I think I’ve really fucked things up this time.”

“I don’t know what to do to make things better.”

“Maybe Kenny can do what I can’t.”

“I’m just a spare part I guess.”

“Nothing special.”

“...just an old meaningless memory.”

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmu on tumblr @flynntervention


	9. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmu on tumblr anytime! @flynntervention :) Sorry for the delay.

“So, you really feel it every time?”

“Yup, it’s a bummer.”

“Dude…”

Kenny laughs lightly, giving Tweek’s shoulder an affectionate nudge. They’re in the McKormick’s garden, hustled together on a bench that, along with the rest of the garden (not to mention the house) has seen better days, now and then catching the skin with sharp, peeling pea green paint.

“You said you weren’t gonna keep feeling bad for me,” Kenny says, leaning on his elbow. His smile is soft and sincere in a way that encourages Tweek to open up, now and years past. “You’ve got way more going on than me right now.”

“It’s not that easy,” Tweek answers, frowning. “You’ve  _ died _ . Like a hundred times. And no one even knows it happens.”

“You do.” Tweek pinches his shoulder. It feels too skinny between his fingers, like if he pinched any harder Kenny’s very bones would crumble. It always made Tweek sad, helpless, knowing that despite his parents’ wealth, despite their lurid connection to the dark underbelly of South Park, they’d never lift a finger to help, never toss a dime. “Besides, you’re a fucking fairy. The fae kind and the gay kind. Fae-Gay!”

“I’m a  _ changeling _ ,” Tweek snips for the tenth time that day, and then sighs, folding his arms on the table and resting his head on them. Kenny has known about what Tweek calls his “afflictions” for just over a month and since has made it his business to make sure Tweek knows he’s not alone. And Tweek hadn’t known how much he’d needed it.

The school greenhouse, run down, windows mottled with green and grey mould that casts an ethereal, otherworldly light across the muddied floor, was long since abandoned. It sits neglected on the far side of the field amongst equally neglected, life-free allotments once upon a time filled with colourful fruits and vegetables and flowers. It had become Tweek’s project - bring life back to the space, make it full and brimming again, put something good back into his  _ own _ life.

Plus, it had allowed him the time and privacy to strengthen and solidify his casting; Birds of Paradise for joy, Chrysanthemums for optimism, the hybrid Delphinium for big-heartedness and fun.

And then one day Kenny had collared him there, the area one of Kenny’s many smoking spots. He’d seen what Tweek could do, spying as Tweek’s fingers curled and flexed, making leaves twist and dance puppet-like; listening to the foreign words and sounds whispered by his lips, like the drift of the wind or the soft crunch of Fall leaves.

The gig was up. But Kenny, as he’d said when Tweek had shrieked and withdrawn with fear and panic, had “secrets of his own”.

“I think it’s kinda hot,” Kenny says absently whilst he stretches, groaning contentedly. Tweek fires a glare at him and Kenny simply grins back, straightening up. “So like, have you got a “real” form or something? You know, something that doesn’t look human?”

“I don’t know, I guess so? The Forest can see it but humans can’t unless I will it, I think?”

Kenny nods. “Have you asked them what you look like? The Forest?”

Tweek’s nose wrinkles for a moment. “I’m scared to. I’ve looked this way – human – my entire life. What if I’m really a monster with two heads and scary alien eyes, or four arms and sharp teeth?”

“You could never be a monster, kiddo. You’re way too cute,” Kenny says, eyes sweeping up and down over him before he licks his lips appreciatively. Kenny has always been obvious about his attraction to Tweek, even when he was exclusively with Craig. At this point, Tweek ignores it altogether because if nothing else, Kenny has also always been a good friend. “Way, way too cute.”

Tweek huffs, lifting his head. “This is why Craig got so mad, you’re a huge flirt and everyone knows it. He could’ve hurt you, you know!”

Kenny lets the remark slide right off him, tapping two fingers on the table-top. “About Craig…”

Tweek groans into his hands.

“What  _ is _ the deal there? Do you wan’im back or…?”

“How should I know? I don’t know about anything at the moment.”  Tweek takes a long breath and breathes out through his nose, steeling himself for everything he’s about to confess. “In between Craig…being  _ Craig _ , and my dad and the drugs and  _ this.  _ You know, I was just trying to get back to a  _ bit _ of normalcy at least, just to start with. I spent the first few months just falling back into step again – going to school, going to work, actually being able to speak to people other than my parents.

“I missed Craig more than anything, but facing him it…it was too much pressure!”

Kenny hums thoughtfully. “I getcha. The longer you leave it the harder it gets, huh?”

Tweek nods mournfully. “I mean, what the hell was I gonna say about why I’d been shut away for three years? “Sorry I broke your heart and all but I was forced into helping my parents build a cannabis empire because I can talk to plants. Oh, and by the way, I’m not human.”

“You should give him a little more credit, you know,” Kenny says without malice, shifting to straddle his seat and face Tweek head on. “It’s not the weirdest thing to happen in South Park. Plus, Craig is an enormous nerd so I bet when you  _ did _ tell him, he lapped it up. I bet in his head you got even more perfect.”

Tweek ponders this, Craig’s reaction. He was calm, collected. Not his usual self (or the one Tweek had known), but there was acceptance there in his expression. Indifference, even, as if Tweek had told him he had a glass eye or a false leg.

“ _ Oh. Is that all? You’re still just Tweek.” _

“I don’t even know him anymore…” he mutters sadly.

“Believe me, he hasn’t changed. And he’s still totally in love with you, in case you haven’t noticed,” Kenny says with a little laugh, because it  _ is _ obvious, to  _ everyone _ . Craig has never made the effort to hide it, before Tweek went AWOL and after. “You know…he never dated anyone else. Don’t get me wrong, he had offers…”

Tweek fidgets, fiddling with the white gold ring on his middle finger. “Offers from whom?”

“ _ Whom? _ You nerd.”

“It’s correct grammar,” Tweek retorts.

“Mostly girls, and he’s a huge fag so, you know,” Kenny answers, shrugging. His gaze doesn’t leave Tweek’s face, tracking every expression, analysing in that way he always does. He seems solemn then, voice quieter when he next speaks. “When I say he hasn’t changed… I mean. When you left him it’s like he got stuck.”

“Stuck?” Tweek parrots curiously, looking up from the examination of his very expensive, very unwanted jewellery.

“You’ve always been his world. He hasn’t moved on. Or forward.”

“I didn’t  _ want _ to leave him.”

“I know, Tweek. It wasn’t your fault.” Kenny pats his thigh, then leaves his hand resting on his knee, squeezing. “I’m just saying it like it is. Much as Craig was kinda hostile to me over talking to you, we’ve had some conversations over the years. Usually when he’s drunk, but… He’s been waiting for you this whole time, is what I’m trying to say. He broke, dude. And he’s never wanted to fix himself.”

Tweek hangs his head, a weight in his chest like a boulder flattening his insides.

“He shouldn’t be in love with me now. He doesn’t _know_ _me_.”

“You still seem like the same old Tweek to me,” Kenny quips. “You’re cute, kind. You care a hellova lot. And you got that smidge o’crazy.“ He punctuates that with the twirl of his index finger at the side of his head. Tweek doesn’t dispute the fact, though he isn’t so sure he agrees with Kenny’s other positive attributes.

“Question is,” Kenny continues, leaning forward on both hands. “Are  _ you _ still in love with  _ him? _ ”

\---

Richard’s voice calling him down floats up the stairs to Tweek’s room where he’s reclined on his bed, reading about the worst natural disasters in history, amusing himself with the notion he should probably feature right at the beginning. Other books are haphazardly scattered around him as though forcefully evicted from his bookshelf, but  _ The World’s Best Builds _ is perched on his lap and next in the list.

As Tweek sits up and slides off his bed, a selection of books thud to the floor, but he scarcely notices, continuing to lap up images and information as he slowly makes his way downstairs. Reaching the bottom step he finally lowers it, thumb pressed between two pages to keep his place.

Richard has a smile,  _ that _ smile, like he has a thousand secrets. The real number is no doubt close, but that smile hides them all, kept quietly and neatly nestled in safety. “I have something for you,” he says, holding out a box coated in electric blue wrapping paper. It’s large and, as Tweek sets his book down on a step and takes the box he realises it’s also heavy.

Richard’s gifts are frequent and extravagant and Tweek’s previous enthusiasm for them has long since wilted to only vague appreciation. Boxes left unopened are piled in his wardrobe, never to be touched; clothes still with their tags; a Rolex watch of which Tweek can’t stand the tick, tick, tick, tick, like the countdown to something sinister.  

All the same, he courteously trots into the living room, Richard close behind him, and sets the box down on the floor to carefully unwrap it. “A PS4?” he says, revealing the tell-tale logo, tugging the remaining paper all the way off and tossing it aside.

“I remember you saying you wanted one some time ago,” Richard says, tone light and cheerful. “It’s got games as well.”

“You said you’d get me a phone,” Tweek says steadily, eyes fixed pointedly on the unwrapped gift. “You promised me a  _ phone _ .”

“Now, now, don’t be ungrateful, son,” Richard answers, unaffected by Tweek’s brazen churlishness. “I don’t believe I  _ promised _ . Besides, a games console is a much better way for you to spend your time than having your nose in a screen, fingers tapping away.”

The irony of that doesn’t escape Tweek. Hot tears prick his eyes, of disappointment and longing. He’d been starting to think he might be getting some semblance of his life back. “Y-you mean actually  _ talking _ to people and having a  _ life _ .”

Sighing heavily, Richard leans over to card a hand through Tweek’s hair. Sharply Tweek slaps it away and jumps to his feet, Richard momentarily startled enough to snatch his hand back. “Now son, we’re not talking about this again, alright?” he says with more firmness in his tone. “I don’t believe you deserve a phone with an attitude like that.”

“Nngh, I’m sick of this!” Tweek yells, shoving the box as far from him as he can manage. Richard watches it slide to a halt at the foot of the big couch, an ostentatious, deep red leather Chesterfield Tweek loathes. On the windowsill behind, the leaves of the emerald green Kentia Palm rustle as they twitch and bob. “I’m sick of this, I’m sick of this!”

It’s unfair to call it a tantrum, but that’s what Richard always does. Scenarios like this spiral Tweek into a rage, have him thundering about the house, hurling ornaments, smashing “beloved” photo frames, casting about anything and everything he can reach in his room like a hurricane has hit. Then he slams the door, and when he next emerges the house is as perfect and pristine as it had been before, like it never even happened. It’s never mentioned again, and the status quo teeters back in.

But this time.  _ This _ time.

Richard is still standing calmly beside the window, arms crossed, waiting for the first crack. It doesn’t come. Instead Tweek bolts from the room and hurtles to the front door, knowing that except for a single deadbolt, it isn’t locked whenever Richard is around – a new, wonderfully opportune rule he’ll give endless thanks for later.

Richard shouts in surprise, a single wrist briefly caught up in the unsettlingly tight grasp of the Kentia Palm’s silken leaves. It delays him for just long enough, and by the time he tears his wrist free and arrives at the thrown open front door, Tweek is already hightailing it down the street.

\---

They’re fourteen when they’re on their way to the Dinosaur National Monument in northwest Colorado. Craig is excited, every twenty minutes checking in with his dad to find out how much further it is, what’s taking so long, what’s with all the dumb traffic. Though Thomas is brimming with irritability (they had an early start), Tweek thinks it’s the cutest he’s ever seen Craig be, watching him fidget, frantically tap his foot, open and close the leaflet nestled in his lap to read it over again as though it might surrender some new information for Craig to absorb.

Craig is the introverted sort, Tweek knows – he’s read a lot of psychology books – and it isn’t often he reveals the full extent of his feelings, excitement especially. But this is refreshing and endearing and Tweek feels a new, overwhelming wave of feelings for ex-bully and top intimidator Craig Tucker, the boy whose ass he’d kicked in fourth grade, setting the ball rolling for an epic friendship and later relationship.  

When Tweek picks up his hand to hold it in his lap, Craig ceases to fidget and his bobbing leg settles. The look he casts to Tweek, a gentle, appreciative smile, still makes Tweek’s heart thunder. “It’s gonna be so much fun,” he says quietly. “Which dinosaur do you wanna see most?”

“All of them!” Craig squeaks, grin broad. “There’s a Stegosaurus – “stegos” means “roof” and “sauros” means lizard; Camarasaurus – they’re plant eaters! There’s a Ceratosaurus – that was in Jurassic Park, they’re seriously awesome but not as cool as the Allosaurus which is like the bigger version and is super bad ass—”

Tweek won’t remember any of this, he’s sure. Craig is a waterfall of knowledge about topics well beyond Tweek’s understanding. But he doesn’t mind. Watching Craig speak, seeing the passion and enthusiasm he has, seeing things rarely anyone else will get to see? That’s what he’ll remember most.

\---

“Is he here?” Richard demands the moment Laura opens the door. When he tucks his head around the doorframe she very slightly jerks it closed. Taking the hint, Richard takes a single step back though continues to nose over her shoulder for clues, any evidence he can grasp onto indicating his son’s presence.

“Excuse me?” Laura answers, inclining her head. In the back of her mind she wishes Thomas was there with her, although grateful her moderately imposing son is also just upstairs.

“Is my son here?”

“Well, I don’t believe so, no.”

“Might you please check?”

Startled (though not at all frightened, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of it), she keeps hold of the door and calls, “Craig, honey? Come down, please!”

A few moments later Craig plods down the stairs in blue sweatpants and a white shirt, pulling his hat on with the flaps and tossing the tassels over his shoulders. “What is it, Mo— what the fuck do you want?” He pauses on the final step.

“Where’s my son?” Richard growls, jostling Laura aside to barge his way inside, meeting Craig at the foot of the stairs. Not a tall man, he cranes his neck to look up at him. If it bothers him, Richard doesn’t let it show, but it amuses Craig greatly that he towers over him, much like his father would. “You’ve been haranguing Tweek day-in-day-out and now you’ve convinced him to go up to your room to do God knows what, haven’t you?”

“I thought Tweek was meant to be the irrational one in the family.”

“Look, you little boy-whore—"

Laura scoffs, hands landing on her hips. “Don’t talk to him like that!”

“It’s fine, Mom,” Craig says, casting a small smile and a wave in her direction. When his attention returns to Richard, he’s as deadpan as ever. “Dude, he’s not here. Go check if you want.”

Growling, Richard jabs a finger into the centre of his chest. The sting fuels Craig’s anger, but he’s determined he won’t show it, not to this man, this creep, snake, any other word to describe this manipulative abuser who took Tweek away.

“He ran off and you always seem to be able to get your claws into him.”

“That’s rich,” Craig mutters, rolling his eyes.

Richard narrows his eyes, offering a parting jab to his sternum. Beside him, Craig sees his Mom twitch, itching to intervene. In the end he’s glad she doesn’t because he really isn’t in the mood for a fight.

“If I find out he’s here…” Richard trails off, and with that said, he steps away, shooting an accusing glare to Laura before he leaves.

Flabbergasted and irritated, Laura slams the door behind him, flipping him off as she does. “What on Earth was that about?” she asks Craig, shaking her head.

“I dunno, Mom,” he replies. He sinks to the bottom step, brow knitted. “I’m…kinda worried about Tweek though.”

“I wonder why he ran off. Has he done that before?”

“I don’t think so. The doors are always locked if Tweek is in the house.”

“Goodness, that’s not right.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Do you know where he might’ve gone? He might be upset or worse, hurt.” Huffing, she scowls at the memory of Richard’s presence in her house like a bad smell, cloying and intense. “I wouldn’t put anything past that horrid man.”

Craig nods, already pulling on his blue sneakers. “Yeah…I have an idea.”

\---

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
